


The Devils of Santa Cecilia

by Jubalii



Series: Coco DustDevils!AU (Biker AU) [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bikers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But It Always Comes Back to These Boys, Ernesto is Basically Cosmo Kramer, Gen, He Manifests in the Rivera House, Humor, Héctor Came Home, Imelda is Still Shoe Mamá, Little Coco Loves her Tíos, Really It's About the Entire Family, That's Literally the Joke, The Twins are Bikers, Tío 'Nesto: Comes to Watch Cable and Eat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-03-26 06:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13852173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Santa Cecilia: home to the Dust Devils, a two-man biker gang... that can only afford one bike.Oscar and Felipe Rivera aren't the most threatening bikers in Mexico. Their only true crimes are speeding and loitering, always managing to find loopholes and evade arrest. They're on a first-name basis with the cops, the ambulance crews, and every nurse in the local hospital. Of course, it's hard to be threatening when you still live with your shoe making older sister, her songwriter husband, and their adorable daughter.Add a "celebrity" turned deadbeat, a smart mouthed bartender, and a tired policeman, and you've got the makings of a really ODD neighborhood!





	1. The First Bike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are in trouble... and in the hospital.  
> Officer Vasquez has no clue what he's getting himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note:  
> This is a series based off the Biker AU; you can read more about on my tumblr [heyheyitsjuju]. The tag is #DustDevils!AU
> 
> This chapter is really a prologue to set the scene as well as introduce Officer Vasquez, who has no idea he’s about to make a career chasing these boys all over town.

A man stepped out of the Santa Cecelia bus terminal, looking around at the sleepy scene spread out before him. He didn’t seem to belong there; even without the impeccable charro suit or the expensive guitar case, the impression of city life seemed to cling to his combed hair, pouring from his clean-shaven jaw and distant expression. And yet this was his hometown; as he stood in the dusky twilight, a retroactive wave of homesickness filled him with a hard, desperate yearning. He’d missed home more than he realized. It only cemented the notion in his mind that had dragged him from the splendor of Mexico City’s nightlife: _this is where I belong._

He hefted the guitar case over his shoulder, black leather catching the lights from the surprisingly modern terminal. His suitcase was bulging, hastily packed in his hurried departure from the life he’d been steadily carving out for himself. He paused only to pull out his phone, opening a mostly one-sided conversation between him and his (ex?) best friend. He had been left on read, but he couldn’t find it in him to fret over the lack of response. He’d known the minute he flaked that he would be in for a serious cold-shoulder treatment.

  _He’ll come around_ , he assured himself quietly. _He always comes around._

Taking a deep breath, he set off in the direction of home. The streets were almost empty, and those who saw him didn’t seem to recognize him. Most everyone was inside, resting from a hard day’s work and enjoying a meal with their family. With any luck, he’d be joining them soon.

In his hurry he dodged the main roads, taking the same alley shortcuts he’d been using all his life. The guitar and the suitcase were heavy, and he had to pause often to swap hands when the blood left his fingers. His back was aching from the long bus ride, and his legs burned with exertion. He’d gotten used to catching a cab, a plane, a bus anywhere he needed to go. It was partly his friend’s fault— _stars_ didn’t walk the streets like everyone else.

It took too long for his liking to reach his street. The lone streetlamp at the end of the intersection was barely enough to see by, and the sun was already sinking below the horizon. He made his way by the light from his neighbor’s windows, breaking into a jog and ignoring the pull of his muscles as he zeroed in on the fenced-in house at the end of the road. _Home! I’m home! Oh, I can’t wait to see everyone; I can’t wait to hug…._

He slowed to a stop, staring at the house in confusion. The front light was gone, wires hanging in the open air. The windows were shuttered, and no light filtered through the cracks. There was nothing to suggest that anyone lived there; no car, no lights, not even a potted plant on the front stoop.

The suitcase fell to the ground, sending up a cloud of dust.

“W-what?” He managed to wheeze, eyes wide and panicked. He stumbled to the front door, knocking three times in quick succession. _They’re asleep. That’s all. Calm down, they just went to bed early._ He waited, far longer than anyone would need to. _She can’t hear me. She’s asleep._ He knocked again, louder this time. A shudder ran down his spine.

 _Don’t expect me to be waiting for you, H_ _é_ _ctor Rivera_!

She’d warned him, hadn’t she? He’d known she was furious when she wouldn’t let him kiss her goodbye. She’d hung up on all his calls, never even looked at his texts, refused to answer his emails. He’d fallen back on letters, sending the family postcards, pictures folded up and tucked into notes filled from top to bottom with his love. He wondered now if they’d ever gotten them. They had gone from city to city so fast without any kind of forwarding; any letter returned-to-sender would have been thrown away. What if she’d never read any of them?

He sunk down to the stoop, head between his knees. They were gone. She was feisty and hotheaded; it was one of the things he loved about her, despite the problems it caused him. But he never expected her to act on her threat. Had she taken them all out of town? Did anyone know where she’d gone? What about his daughter? Didn’t he have rights as a father? But if she’d told the judge that he’d abandoned his family… could they take her away from him forever?!

How did he even start to go about finding them?

* * *

Imelda Rivera was a sensible woman. She had to be, after all; an entrepreneur of a profitable business had to have a steady head on her shoulders. No one else managed Rivera Shoes’ online presence. She was the face of the business, the proud woman in the signature purple suit who networked with clients, advocated for local businesses, and refused corporate offers while still managing to make a sale. At the end of the day it was up to her to make enough to keep the shop running, the bills paid, and her family fed.

If she’d had a _partner_ to help, maybe she could have relaxed more. But she couldn’t even have a partner in life, it seemed; he’d skipped out on a wild goose chase for fame, leaving them with a mortgage and no money. Her anger towards _that man_ was only dwarfed by the loneliness his absence created. She wasn’t alone, of course: she had Coco, and she’d sent last year for her twin brothers to help when the orders grew too numerous to handle alone. But they couldn’t make her laugh the way he did, or hold her close in the middle of the night, or sing the special song he’d written for her and her alone. 

Plus, with the way the boys acted it was more like taking care of three children instead of one. Even at sixteen, the twins were much more of a handful than her own toddler. Coco was only four, but already she seemed to have more common sense then the two of them combined; Imelda had lost count of the times she’d threatened to send them back home to Mamá, frustrated beyond belief at their teenage attitudes.

Even now, Coco was being a little angel; the nurse had given her a coloring book and a box of crayons, warning them all that the doctor might be a while. She was happily employed with them, stopping every so often to twirl on the doctor’s metal stool with a shriek of infantile laughter. She was so well behaved compared to the pouting knuckleheads laid up in two identical hospital beds, one sporting a cast on his arm while the other had a fractured collarbone. Both were covered in all manner of cuts and bruises; their eyes were blackened, their faces swollen.

“I’d like to know how this happened.” She crossed her arms, glaring at them. The doctors could tell them apart by their injuries; Imelda could tell with a single glance, though even she sometimes wondered just _how_ she knew that Oscar was Oscar and Felipe was Felipe. It was in the set of their mouths, she often decided, though even that wasn’t always true. Oscar could be serious and deadpan just as often as Felipe could grin and snicker. She was their _hermana_ ; she just _knew_.

And right now, she knew that they were hiding something. Sheep, even stampeding ones, didn’t cause what looked suspiciously like toned-down road rash. And they were very clearly lying through their teeth; Oscar’s eyes kept drifting towards the ceiling as he spoke, while Felipe’s went towards the window. They had never mastered the art of looking her in the eye when making up a story. Before either of them could repeat their excuses, a brisk knock interrupted her interrogation. 

“Riveras?” The doctor entered, followed by a policeman. Imelda took one look at the cop before turning to the twins, her mouth pressed in a white line. They shrunk against the pillows, identical grimaces greeting the newcomers. “Well, I see we’ve got a party in here!” he joked, looking around at the twins, Imelda standing between them, and Coco on his rolling chair. He nodded at Imelda, motioning to the policeman behind him. “I’m Dr. Oropeza, and this is Officer Vasquez. You two,” he addressed the twins, “are _very_ lucky. You could have broken your necks, the way you fell off that bike.”

“Excuse me… did you say _bike_?”  Imelda stiffened, the corners of her mouth falling more with each passing minute. “You mean bicycle, right?” Her voice was high and pleasant for the officer’s benefit, though her eyes blazed with hellfire. Dr. Oropeza seemed uncomfortable, tugging at his tie.

“Well, no—I mean the motorbike.” He glanced from her to the twins and back. “I’m sorry, are you their mother?”

“They wish.” She crossed her arms, nails biting into her flesh through the sleeves of her suit coat. “I’m their sister. They’re staying with me to go to school in town.”

“I see.” Officer Vasquez spoke for the first time, pulling a pen from his pocket and clicking it rapidly. “You’re their legal guardian, then? I suppose I should tell you exactly what happened.”

“Oh, _please_ do.” She forced a tight smile onto her face, fingers beating a rapid tempo on her arm. Coco looked up from her coloring page, grinning toothily at the doctor as she brandished her masterwork _en cours._ He smiled back and leaned over to quietly compliment her work, keeping her busy while her mother was preoccupied. 

“According to the farmer and eyewitness statements, these boys tried to jump a moving herd of sheep with a motorcycle.” Oscar made a noise and they turned. He blushed, sinking into the pillow.

“We didn’t _try_ , Officer. We jumped them just fine.”

“It was the coming down that didn’t go so well,” Felipe mumbled, looking at his cast. Both the officer and Imelda glared at them fiercely; they fell silent once more, exchanging expressions of pure dread.

“ _Ahem_.” Officer Vasquez cleared his throat pointedly. “As I was saying… none of the sheep were harmed, and so the farmer has decided not to press charges. But this one,” he pointed to Felipe, “was thrown from the back of the bike, which proceeded to roll over the other one. Luckily for them, the farmer was coming out to investigate and called emergency services. But they were riding with no helmets, no protective gear—”

“And no permission,” Imelda finished. She worked her jaw, composing herself as much as possible. “Just _whose_ bike were you riding?” she asked, smile going eerie. “I’d like to know who to thank for these bills.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Officer Vasquez admitted. “This bike belongs, at the moment, to these two. What I want to know is _who_ sold it to you? I’ve checked and neither of you even have a minor permit. Do you know how dangerous it is to buy a bike off the street? Did you check the brakes? The motor? What if it had caught fire and burned you both alive? Did you even _think_ about what might happen?” he growled, sounding more like a protective parent than an officer of the law. With each question, the boys looked more and more ashamed until they were on the verge of tears, trying to hang onto their dignity.

“No, sir.” Officer Vasquez pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing it before sighing.

“The two of you don’t have any type of vehicle insurance either, do you?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Just how much trouble are they in?” Imelda asked. “Are we talking about jail time?” The twins gulped, but she ignored them for the moment. Officer Vasquez met her eyes, a silent conversation passing between them. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, looking at the beds with a thoughtful frown.

“They… technically weren’t on the road. The most I could get them for is breaking onto private property, and like I said, the farmer isn’t going to press charges. But my suggestion to you is that you let me confiscate the bike. It might be stolen; I’ll have to run the plates to be sure, but with something off the street, it’s better safe than sorry.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. You have my permission to take it.”

“But—!” Felipe winced, clutching at his arm as he sat up.

“We paid for that! It’s not stolen, it’s ours!” Oscar protested.

“Not anymore, it’s not!” Imelda snapped. “You’re lucky I don’t make you dismantle it yourselves and sell it for scrap! Officer, you are _more_ than welcome to take the bike,” she repeated. Officer Vasquez nodded.

“Will do. And my suggestion for _you_ ….” He approached the beds, turning his sternest gaze on them. “You boys stop this nonsense. You could have been killed, and what’s worse: you worried your sister for no good reason. This kind of reckless path _will_ end with jail time. The last thing Santa Cecelia needs is a pair of no-good punks running around. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Officer,” they replied sullenly. “We understand.”

“If you obey your elders and do well in school, you’ll grow up to be fine citizens. No more of this street bike stuff, okay? Promise me.” He knelt, looking from one bed to the other. “If you buy a bike in the future—” Imelda snorted behind him, “—you wait to do it _legally_ , when you have a license.”

“We promise.” He nodded.

“I’m going to hold you to it.” He stood, looking down his nose at them before turning to shake Imelda’s hand. “I’ll take care of the bike. You may have to bring these two to the station to sign statements, though.”

“That’s fine. _Gracias,_ Officer Vasquez.” She smiled at him, grateful; she didn’t know everything about the law, but she was sure he was pulling a few strings to give her brothers a break. “Thank you for everything.” He chuckled.

“I have two grown boys of my own,” he said, as if that explained everything. “It’s a phase. They’ll grow out of it.” He winked at Coco, who giggled and waved as he left the room.

“Well, now that all that’s settled, I don’t suppose anyone would like to see the X-rays?” Dr. Oropeza suggested. The twins brightened, eyes going wide at the thought of seeing their own skeletons.

“Can we?!”

* * *

“You two are _not_ worth this much.” Imelda fumed, hitching Coco higher on her hip as they walked through the dark streets. The twins lagged behind, more out of anger for the loss of their bike than any real pain. The medicine they’d been given at the hospital took off the edge, and they had stronger painkillers to help them sleep when they got home. 

“But Imelda—”

“And don’t think you aren’t grounded. You’ll be lucky to leave the house for school, I’m so mad at you!”

 “I don’t see that we did anything _wrong_.” Imelda stopped, whirling on her heel to scowl at Oscar.

“You’re so lucky I have a child in my arms.”

“Hey!”

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to have a _police officer_ tell me what you did wrong? I give you wages for working at the shop and this is what you do with them?! Well, consider your pay _cut_!”

“You can’t do that!”

“I can so! I’m both your boss _and_ your sister. You—” She stopped short, seeing a shadow slumped against their front door. “Who is that?” The twins stopped behind her, peering around each shoulder to see what she was talking about. The shadow shifted, but from this angle it was impossible to see if they were noticed or not. Imelda clutched her sleeping daughter to her chest, innards freezing; her first instinct was to hand Coco off to one of the boys and order them to run for help, but they were injured. She didn’t know whether to trust Felipe to handle her one-handed, or for Oscar to risk further damage by trying to hold her with a fracture. Her hesitation was torture, the knowledge in the back of her mind that if someone were to pull a gun on them, she was powerless to do more than throw her own body in the middle.

“Hey you!” Before she could move, the twins surrounded her. Oscar put his body, injuries and all, between her and the shadow; Felipe pressed against her with his uninjured side, offering more protection to Coco while keeping her flank covered. “Show yourself! What do you want!?”

“No,” she whispered, sandwiching Coco between her and Felipe as she grabbed for the purse hanging at her hip. She dug for her keys, preparing to offer either an escape route into the house or a sharp weapon if need be. The shadow looked at before drawing to full height; the shape of it, barely illuminated by their closest neighbor’s porch light, stirred something in the back of her mind.

“Step into the light!” Felipe demanded, sounding much older and braver than Imelda knew he was. She reached around to grab Oscar’s forearm with her free hand, keys clutched between her fingers. If she had to turn tail and run, they’d be coming right along with her. The shadow obeyed, walking forward until the light showed it to be a man, tall and slender with large ears and larger eyes. He stared at them, mouth partly open, and then cleared his throat.

“I-Imelda?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes lingering on her face. She came unstuck slowly, a rusty machine that needed oiling. One breath, then another, emotions rolling through so quickly that she barely had time to register them. Shock, happiness, anger, confusion: a cocktail of feeling that centered on one point: _He came back._

“Who’re you?” Felipe squinted. “Wait....”

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_!?” Oscar squeaked. “What’re you doing here?” Héctor didn’t answer, first walking, then jogging in their direction. The look on his face was one of intense relief, his arms rising as if to embrace them all at once. He slowed when he came close enough to see the cast on Felipe’s arm, his puzzlement chased by a warm glow at the sight of Coco nestled in her mother’s arms. The twins moved away, and he reached for his daughter; Imelda stepped back, eyes flashing.

“Don’t you dare wake her up,” she hissed, shoulders hunching protectively over her child. “If she knows you’re here, she’ll never go back to sleep.” Héctor obediently stopped, unable to keep the hurt from his eyes. She looked away, trying to ignore the pang she felt at the sight. “Oscar, Felipe, unlock the door and go on inside.”

“Imelda—”

“Shh.” She glared at him, handing the keys off to Felipe. The twins scrambled to obey, unlocking the door and throwing it open before disappearing inside with their bag of combined medicine. She followed, pretending that she only kept the door open because kicking it shut would wake Coco. She heard him follow behind her, the soft thud of his guitar case hitting the sofa. A hand touched her shoulder and she stiffened, ready to smack him away; he stopped her long enough to look at Coco once more, bending his head to kiss her cheek. She stirred but didn’t wake, crumpling the coloring page she held in her fist. He smiled, the expression fading when their eyes met. He stepped back, letting her by.

She passed through the kitchen, where Felipe was reading the instructions on the pill bottles while Oscar filled two glasses with water. They both looked at her, questions swimming in their eyes. She shook her head, one finger to her lips as she went to the back of the house.  She opened Coco’s bedroom door, laying her down on the bed before gently tugging the paper from her hands. She replaced it with her doll, smiling when the child hugged it close; she smoothed the hair over her forehead, kissing her temple before pulling the well-worn quilt over her tiny body.

“Goodnight, _mija_.” She crept out of the room, gently closing the door behind her before walking back into the kitchen. “Just one of those,” she advised Felipe as he began shaking out pain pills. “It’s late and you still have medicine in your system.”

“Okay.” He replaced all but two of the pills, handing one to Oscar before downing it with a grimace. “Ugh,” he grumbled, looking into the water glass.

“Finish it,” she ordered, pointing to the water. “Then get to your rooms and go to bed; no video games.”

“Aw, come _on_ —” Oscar wisely shut up as Imelda’s nostrils flared. He gulped back his water, Felipe following suit before heading to their bedroom as quickly as possible. Felipe turned at the last second, looking at her before offering a tiny smile.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” She turned from the door, not seeing how it didn’t shut all the way, two brown eyes stacked on top of each other as they peered through the crack. “Héctor, you might as well get in here.” He slunk through the archway, hands wringing. “Well?”

“Um… hi.” He nodded to the bedrooms. “What happened to them?”

“That doesn’t matter. _Why_ did you show your face around here? Did Ernesto kick you out of the band?” Her tone was scathing, some of her lingering anger from the twins directed at him along with a year’s worth of pain.

“No, I left on my own.” His lips twisted as he looked around the kitchen, avoiding her eyes. “Did you—did you get any of my letters?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, arching a brow. “And your emails, and your text messages, and your voicemails.”

“Then why didn’t you answer?” She tore the pocketbook from her shoulder, letting it fall on the table before crossing her arms.

“Because you didn’t deserve the time of day, that’s why!” She let herself be louder, knowing that Coco would be dead to the world now that she was in her bed and behind closed doors. “You _left,_ Héctor!”

“I know—”

“I had to cover for all your stupid bills!”

“I—yeah—” He winced. “But I tried to send—”

“You think your stupid money orders helped?!” she snarled, the words she’d wanted to say to him for months clawing their way out of her chest. “They were barely enough to pay the mortgage, much less groceries and the electric bill and—” He looked more and more like a kicked puppy, watching her with those sad, pitiful eyes. She’d never accepted his calls, knowing that she’d break at the first sound of his voice. Now, the only way to keep him from talking was to talk over him, and she had more than enough to talk about. “We nearly went bankrupt! Do you know what I had to do?! I had to start a business just to keep up with the debt you left behind when you were out _seizing your moment_!” She quoted Ernesto’s often spoken words with sarcastic air-quotes, trying to keep her hands from balling into fists.

“Y-You did?” He looked around, as if the business was going to hit him in the face. “What did you do?”

“I make shoes.” She looked down at her own pair, sensible flats with the Rivera logo on their toes. He gaped at them.

“You made those?!” She looked up, ready to cut into him again, and then saw the look of reverent awe on his face. It was enough to make her pause, blushing.

“And so what if I did? It just proves that I don’t need you to keep us alive. I’m doing well for myself and here you are, crawling back to me after your stupid plan didn’t work—”

“What are you talking about?!” Now it was Héctor’s turn to frown. “Our plan was working fine. We had more gigs then ever!”

“You came back to gloat, then!”

“No! I came back because I missed…” He faltered, looking away. “You. I missed you. And Coco.”

“You should have thought of that before you left.” He rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair.

“Imelda, I _mean_ it. I’m not built for that life; Ernesto is. He’s the one that likes the stage. I’m just the songwriter.” He sighed, crossing his arms before nodding. “Everything I need to write songs is here. I’m going to email Ernesto new songs,” he said, as though they hadn’t fought about it at all. “I’ll work from home, the way I used to…” He hesitated, biting his lower lip. “That is, if you’ll let me stay.”

“Héctor—”

“If you don’t me to, I—I’ll think of something. I’ll get a house in town, or—” He stopped himself, closing his eyes. “I’m just… you were right, and I was wrong. I should have never left Santa Cecelia. I should have never left you and Coco. I’m sorry.” She stopped short of a scoff, eyes widening. His tone touched her; this wasn’t one of his timid, schmoozing ‘I know I’m wrong but I as long as I get my way’ fake apologies. This was sincere.

“Well…” She cleared her throat, trying to talk around the lump forming there. “You look like you’ve been crying,” she snapped, trying to change the subject. He smiled weakly.

“There wasn’t anyone here when I came. I thought—I thought you’d left.”

“What?” _That_ was surprising. “Why on earth would you think something like that?!”

“Because you told me you would,” he croaked, wiping at his eyes quickly.

“We were at the hospital!” She flushed, partly from shame. Now that he mentioned it, she _did_ remember saying something like that to him when he was getting ready to leave. _He ought to know not to take anything I say seriously when I’m that mad_! But that was her fault for saying it in the first place; he’d looked to her for support in following his dream, and instead she’d given him cause to think she’d go.

“Hey, hey.” He gave a watery chuckle. “Don’t _you_ start crying on me, or I’ll start up again.”

“I’m not crying,” she protested, even as his form went blurry. Her lips trembled and she looked away, blinking as fast as she could. “I’m just… I’m not crying.” He said nothing, raising his arms, lowering them, raising them again as he tried to make up his mind. “No,” she said, knowing what he wanted.  “No, don’t come here—don’t—Héctor!”

 His arms wrapped around her, drawing her against his chest. She was almost ashamed at how quickly she cracked, grabbing handfuls of his jacket as she clutched him to her. The need to feel him again overrode her fury and she pressed her ear to his chest, feeling the rapid pound of his heart beneath her cheek. He squeezed her as if he meant to push her into his skin, hands rising to her hair before going back to her spine, running along her jaw, trembling fingers trying to take all of her in at once.

“Don’t leave again—”

“ _Never_ —” She turned just enough to bury her face, voice muffled.

“Promise.”

“I do. I promise.” He tilted her face up to his, wiping the wet trails from her cheeks. “Imelda….”

“You swear on your life, Héctor Rivera.” Her hands covered his, holding them against her cheeks. “On your _life_.”

“I swear.” He pressed his lips fleetingly to her forehead. “I’m home for good.” She dragged him down to kiss him properly, smiling against his mouth.

* * *

 

In the hallway the door finally closed, the two boys on the other side making equally grossed-out expressions. They crept to their beds, not trusting Héctor to keep her occupied long enough to risk venturing outside the room. Oscar tried to settle on his back, Felipe twisting so that his broken arm was on top. The pills were starting to take effect, their yawning long and drawn out.

Felipe reached out with his uninjured hand, grasping at the empty air between their beds. Oscar met him, their knuckles brushing in a light fist bump. Neither of them could sleep until they’d had that last touch, something they’d done for as long as either of them could remember. Imelda pointed out once that they’d even done it as infants, touching briefly in the crib they shared.

“If he’s back,” Felipe said softly, keeping his voice down, “then she might not be so mad.”

“Maybe we’ll get out of our grounding early?” Oscar pointed out.

“Or she’ll be so distracted that she’ll forget.” A pause. “I don’t guess we can get our bike back, though.”

“Not from the police.” Oscar scowled at the ceiling. “That was a whole year’s pay.”

“I know. It was for me, too.” He muffled a yawn. “Do you suppose we save up for licenses now?”

“That sounds about right. We did promise to get a bike legally, after all.”

“It’ll take some time… but I think we can do it.”

“Me too…. Does your arm hurt? I think mine does, kinda.”

“My collarbone hurts, too.”

“Oh. Well. Hmm.”

“Mm… I’m tired. Goodnight, Oscar.”

“Night, Felipe.”


	2. The Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imelda and the twins have a clash of interests.  
> Héctor gets a surprise visit from an old friend.

“And then, it’s ten.” Coco pointed her fork at Héctor, who smiled indulgently. “And then, it’s fifteen? And then it’s twenty, and _then_ —”

“Coco!” Imelda sat down at the table, rubbing her temples with a muted groan. “Eat your food.” She spared a glance at her daughter, rolling her eyes before snatching the napkin out of the six-year-old’s collar. “And your napkin goes in your _lap_ , not your shirt.”

“But Mamá!” Coco slumped until her cheek hit the wooden table, adopting a perfect imitation of her father’s puppy-dog pout. Imelda ignored her just as easily as she did her husband, arching a brow before spreading her own napkin across her lap.

“Hey. Listen to your mamá, _mija_.” Imelda smiled at Héctor, grateful for the support; it slipped from her face a moment later when she found him wiping his mouth on his bare forearm. He looked up from his plate and, catching her glare, grinned sheepishly. He grabbed for his unused napkin, hastily wiping his chin between shoveling forkfuls of rice down his throat. _Ay, Dios: what did I do to deserve this **zoo**?! _ She took a deep breath, making sure Coco looked her direction before dabbing her lips neatly with the napkin. At least _one_ person in this family could be a good role model.

“But Papá,” Coco tried, knowing that Héctor was the more likely to cave in if she begged. “Don’t you want to know how I count by fives? That’s important; Teacher said so!” Héctor couldn’t speak—at least he had enough manners not to talk with his mouth full—and she took advantage of the silence.

“Coco, remember how I told you that going to school is a child’s job?” Coco frowned, scratching her fork against the side of her plate, but nodded. “Well, if your job is to go to school, then it’s _work_. And what is our rule?” She sighed, braids trailing on the table as she slid down in her chair.

“No work at the dinner table,” she recited.

“That’s right. Now stop picking at your food and eat.” The girl propped her chin in one hand, sending Imelda an obstinate, moody scowl that came straight from her tíos. Imelda smiled in return, scooping more rice onto Héctor’s plate. He gave her a warm smile, both his cheeks packed like a hamster’s. She pursed her lips and turned away, cutting her beef with a knife instead of hacking at it the way he did with his fork. _How on earth did I fall in love with a caveman?_

Her eyes trailed to the clock above the old wired telephone. 7:30. Seeing Coco’s teenagerly expression had reminded her of her brothers. They were late—far later than usual. Héctor followed her eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat.

“The boys: they said they would be home later tonight?” He kept his question lighthearted, though he clearly picked up on her unease. She wiped her mouth, fighting the urge to tear the napkin with fidgety fingers.

“They didn’t say anything, except that they weren’t coming home right after school.” Her brow furrowed, and she took a deep breath. It wasn’t like them to shirk their after-school duties at the shop, but they were eighteen now. She remembered her own school days, wanting to stay and chat with her friends after the last bell rang. She always had to rush home and help Mamá get food on the table, and the frustration of being forced to work had stayed with her long after graduation. It wasn’t fair to subject the twins to the same harsh ideals, especially on days when she knew the shop would be slow.

“They’ll be together, wherever they are,” Héctor noted as he leaned over to help Coco cut her _bistec_. Imelda said nothing, mouth tightening into a thin line. He’d clearly said it to assure her, though the thought was anything but assuring. Of course they were together, they were _always_ together. Seeing one without the other was like seeing a sign of the apocalypse.

She couldn’t help but remember the old crones at the plaza. _Los gemelos… those who are born together are destined to die together_ , they’d tell Mamá. They always laughed afterwards, as if it were some big joke Imelda hadn’t been privy to. Yet, even if they laughed the words had anchored themselves deep within her. She had been afraid for weeks that, if the twins were together by themselves, they would die. Finally her parents and found the source of her worries and laughed, saying that it was an old wives’ tale. Something grandmothers said from time to time.

That didn’t stop her from worrying. Especially now, as an adult. She was their legal guardian; after Papá died, Mamá had entrusted them to her care before moving to the retirement community. They were her responsibility, not only in the eyes of the law but also in the eyes of the family. She was their older sister, the wise sense of reason. If they were hurt—or worse—on her watch… how could she face Mamá, or anyone else? How could she face _herself_? She’d had a taste of that two years ago, when that stupid motorbike had nearly broken their necks. She didn’t care for a second helping.

She looked from the clock to see Coco watching her with wide eyes. Children always picked up on more than adults realized. She didn’t want her daughter to see how concerned she really was, and so took a gulp of water to buy herself some more time.

“I’m sure they’ll be home any minute,” she managed to agree. _I am a little overprotective of them, anyway. After all, they’re practically adults, right?_ Well, not quite right; they were still teens. They’d probably just lost track of time and would be sliding through the door any time now, laughing and completely unaware of how much stress and strife they caused her in their absence.

“They might just be at—what on earth?” Héctor paused, the three of them raising their heads as the sharp sound of a revving motor cut through the otherwise peaceful night. It grew louder, until it seemed to be on their very street. “Damn motorists.”

“Mamá, Papá said a bad word again,” Coco pointed out helpfully. But Imelda wasn’t paying attention, her arm slung over the back of the chair as she twisted to see through the arch into the front room.

“Can’t they afford a muffler or something?” she complained, agreeing completely. “As if you have to drive a stupid truck to get where you need to go in this town. Take a _hike_.”

“Not a truck: it sounds like one of the newer cars. Or a bike.” Coco covered her ears as the sound grew louder. “Are they coming all the way down the alley!?” Héctor half-shouted, wincing. “It sounds like—oh.” The motor cut off and they all turned, this time towards the back door just past the mudroom.

“Are they coming to our house?” Coco asked, stuffing a piece of beef into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Can I answer the door?”

“No, it’s too dark,” Héctor answered her kindly. “Let Papá do it.”

“Aww!”

“Don’t whine at the table, _mija_.” He looked over his plate at Imelda, the same question she had swimming in his eyes. _Why the alley?_ She tensed, hand tightening around her knife. It was very likely that whoever it was wasn’t planning to come to their house at all. But the alley faced the back of the houses on the street, and there was nothing but a high wall on the other side where the old mill had once stood. None of their neighbors would be driving in the alley itself, where nails and broken glass and who-knows-what-else could puncture a tire. There was more than enough room on the front street to parallel park; besides, no one’s car sounded like _that_. So whoever was back there… they were probably bad news.

There was the muffled creak of an iron gate, and footsteps just beyond the kitchen. Coco cocked her ear.

“It’s my tíos!” she said confidently. Imelda relaxed too; it _did_ sound like the boys. She couldn’t explain exactly how, but she knew the identical sounds of their bouncy gait as well as she knew Coco from any of the kids at her school, or Héctor’s flat feet from a customer’s. Maybe it was from being around shoes all day that she knew their pattern, the way a person took that sole and made it entirely their own. Héctor chalked it up to some kind of weird, womanly voodoo.

“I don’t—” Héctor began, less trusting when his family’s safety was on the line. He stood as the back doorknob rattled, and then there was the audible jangling of keys. He walked into the mudroom, flipping on the single lightbulb and peering through the curtain before unbolting the door. “Good grief! What on earth happened to _you_!?”

“What?” Imelda stood up, her palm flat against Coco’s head as the child shot up in her seat. “Is it the boys?” A thousand things ran through her mind—mugging, gangs, broken bones, broken _glasses_ , black eyes, and every other possible thing that could possibly befall them at school. But when Héctor backed against the washing machine to let them pass, they were none the worse for wear… or at least they had all their limbs. Her first good look at them left her speechless.

They’d grown taller than her by their seventeenth birthday and were close to clearing Héctor’s seemingly enormous height. They needed a haircut; their hair curled like Mamá’s at the ends, bangs plastered to their foreheads with a mixture of sweat and dust. The same dust stained the white sleeves of their school uniforms, streaking across the matching red sweater-vests and marring the pocket emblem. Their khakis were just as badly off, stained by strange fluids and caked with road dust at the lower hems.  Their faces were dusty as well, their glasses dingy with a fine layer of grime.

“Who did this to you?!” _Bullies?! Were they bullied?_ She ran to embrace them, stopping only at the thought of dust on her clothing and on the dinner table. Coco stared openmouthed, eyes shining with the same adoration she always gave the boys. Oscar and Felipe looked at each other briefly, sharing a puzzled look before turning back to her.

“Did what, Imelda?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look at you!” Héctor pulled the curtain back farther, looking up and down the alley with a frown while Imelda continued her scolding interrogation. “What happened?! Where have you been? Did you roll around in a sand pit or something!?”

“Oh.” They looked down together, as if they’d just noticed their state.

“This is going to take forever to get out!” She plucked at Oscar’s sleeve, mentally calculating the amount of bleach it would take to get the shirts looking pristine. She took pride in their uniforms—she had a right to, with the amount of money she sunk into sending them to the best private school in the area. She’d insisted they’d finish out _preparatoria_ , even though they’d both pointed out they’d just be working in her shoe shop no matter what.

“ _Ay_ … sorry, ‘Melda.” Oscar shrugged. “I guess we didn’t think about that, going down the road.”

“Who were you with?” Héctor asked suspiciously, turning to them. He crossed his arms in a rare display of authority, trying to look as stern as possible. Imelda was usually stacked on her own against the two of them, and since he returned he’d avowed that keeping them in line was to be a team effort. After all, if she was their guardian, he was _also_ their guardian… in a way. “Are they waiting outside?”

“With?” Felipe wrinkled his nose. “We weren’t _with_ anyone. Well, I was with Oscar—”

“And I was with Felipe—”

“If that counts,” they finished. Héctor shook his head, thumbing to the alley.

“We heard that motor. _Someone_ had to drive you, and it hasn’t started up yet. Are they going to sit in a dark alley all night?”

“Oh….” The confusion melted from their faces, replaced quickly by impish smirks. “ _That_.”

“No one’s there,” Oscar promised.

“ _We_ drove.”

“By ourselves.”

“Don’t yank my chain, _chamacos_.” Héctor looked down his nose at them; or tried to, since they were both at his eye level. “Tell the truth.”

“But Héctor—”

“We _are_ telling the truth.” Their smirks turned to full, toothy grins. Oscar went for his left leg and Felipe his right, digging in the deep pockets of their school pants and pulling out two laminated cards. “Ta-da!”

“Wha—let me see that!” They turned to brandish them in Imelda’s face, chests puffed out proudly. Two pictures stared back at her from two licenses, stating them legal to drive any personal vehicle. Oscar smiled where he should have been stone-faced, and Felipe looked startled by the flash, but they were valid permits. “ _This_ is where you were?!”

“Now, we can go anywhere we want to,” Oscar explained haughtily. “All we had to do was pass a _little_ written test—”

“Pay some money—”

“And we were set!”

“I know how licenses work!” she snapped. “But what exactly were you driving?” A pause, too long to be anything _good_. “Oscar… Felipe….” She felt her jaw tightening. “What have you done?” Héctor blanched at the deathly calm tone, Coco sinking down in her seat. Only the twins seemed unmoved—to the untrained eye, at least. Felipe shifted closer to his brother, the two of them forming their supposedly impenetrable wall against her fury.

“We drove… a motorbike.” The confession hung in the air. “Our new one.” Imelda was flabbergasted. For a long moment she could do nothing but stand and stare at them, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“A… _what_?” She felt rage’s burning heat rush to her face, hands clenching into fists. Héctor waved a hand, shaking his head and mouthing over their shoulders. _Cálmese_ —

“ _Una moto_ ,” Oscar enunciated slowly. “One we bought this afternoon.” The clock chimed the hour. The dam burst.

“How _could_ you?! After what happened last time?!” Imelda seemed to grow an extra three feet, trembling with emotion. “Are you stupid!? Are you crazy?!”

“Of course not!” Felipe protested, brow wrinkling. Imelda threw up her hands.

“Ay! And _what_ did that policeman tell you?! You’ve already forgotten? Maybe you both need the sense beaten back into you!” She dipped, going for her shoe.

“They just said not to buy one off the _street_.” Oscar flinched as she tossed her flat, grabbing it by the heel and brandishing it for a backhanded swing. “And we didn’t do that!”

“We bought it off a lot—”

“With the money we saved two years for—”

“We picked out what we wanted—”

“Test drove it and everything—”

“Signed for it—” With that, Felipe dug deeper into his pockets and pulled out a bundle of folded papers. “Here’s the papers to prove it.” Imelda snatched them from his hand, flipping the long receipts open and reading over them hurriedly. This was no lie, no prank gone too far. They’d really gone out after school, behind her back, and bought themselves a motorcycle.

“We wanted two, but we could only afford one,” Oscar told Héctor as Imelda flipped through the receipts with a frightening speed. “Turns out they’re more expensive than we thought.”

“ _That’s_ why you waited so long to get a permit?” he scoffed, hands on his hips. “I thought you two were just going to hitchhike everywhere you went.”

“No way!” The twins shared a triumphant smile.

“The licenses are a reward for being able to buy the bike!”

“We _did_ promise to do it legally, after all.”

“It’s ours, and it only took two years of hard work.”

“Well.” Imelda folded the papers back, mouth set in a thin line. “You’ll be taking it back tomorrow.” She managed to stay outwardly calm, though her innards were boiling. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this angry. _They’re going to get themselves killed!_

“What?!”

“B-But it’s _our_ s!” Felipe protested. “We signed the title and everything!”

“You did all this behind our backs!” She eyed Héctor, jerking her head. He crept up to stand beside her, looking more and more uncomfortable with the situation. Coco had completely forgotten her food, her mouth hanging open as she watched the fight unfold. She hadn’t seen a _real_ family battle; it was nothing like the petty arguments that happened from time to time.

“So?” They both looked completely dumbfounded, and it only made her angrier.

“Look, you two—" Héctor rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes turning to the ceiling as he searched for something mature and guardian-like to say. The last thing he needed was Imelda turning on him for not putting his foot down with her.

“You kept secrets from your family!” Imelda interrupted. A small part of her quipped that _that_ was the real reason behind most of her anger, but she ignored it. _What’s gotten into them?_ The brothers she knew would never hide themselves away from their family; was it something they learned at school? _She’d_ never been this way as a teenager.

“Only because you’d say no!”

“ _Of course_ I’d say no!” Imelda hissed, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. “No, you’re taking this thing back. Tomorrow.”

“No.” She gasped, hearing Héctor and Coco echo the sound. For a moment she was stunned into silence, amazed that they’d openly defy her. Oscar glanced at Felipe, the two of them squaring their shoulders and drawing themselves to full height. They fairly towered over her, using it to their advantage in a united front.

“Yes.” She worked her jaw, feeling stress tightening the muscles in her neck. “You _are_.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, we’re not!”

They fell into an old-fashioned sibling stare down, with Héctor and Coco looking on fretfully. Imelda had to work double to meet both their scowling glares, but between the three of them she was the stronger. The boys could feel the sweat beading on the back of their necks, aided by the crawling notion that she could probably whack them both in the same swing, her arm moving at the rate of a major league pitcher.

“I am not having that… that _Devil ride_ in my house!”

“It’s not in your house,” Oscar pointed out snidely. “It’s behind it.” It was one of the ultimate sibling power moves, and it hit right where he’d wanted it to. Imelda’s cheeks flushed a dark, mottled red and she squeezed the shoe to within an inch of its life; only the Rivera stitching could have held against such a white-knuckled pressure.

“You’ll end up dead!” It was getting hard to tell whether she meant the bike, or by her own hand.

“We drove it home without a problem, didn’t we?” Felipe tilted his head, flashing his license at her. “We have these now, and besides—we’ve already driven in the dark. How hard can daytime be?”

“I—” Imelda stammered, knowing that she was losing her footing but not ready to give up the argument. “I _forbid_ it!” There, plain and simple. They couldn’t bring their wild ideas home if she made it impossible for them. _I thought this was supposed to be a phase_ , _anyway_!

“Then…” They were growing desperate as well; a real Rivera fight never lasted this long. Besides, forbidding things was a Mamá move, not an Imelda one. They had no way of knowing how serious she was, but if she was anything like their mother their chances for the bike were sliding between their fingers, license or no license. “Then we’ll move!” This was laughed down scornfully.

“With what money!” Imelda scoffed, shaking her head. “It seems to me like you blew yours.” That was true.

“We’ll—we’ll wait tables at night!”

“We’ll work in the fields—”

“In the mines—”

“At the bar!”

“Uh, can I input one teensy little thing?” Héctor smiled awkwardly, raising one long finger.

“No!” They all snapped.

“Ah, okay.”

“Alright, enough of this.” Imelda took a deep breath, schooling her face into her darkest expression. “No more arguments. You are going to go to your room, take off those dirty clothes, and go to bed. No supper, no talking, no _nothing_.”

“But—”

“Ah!” She held up her hand, eyes narrowing further. “ _No_ _nothing_. Tomorrow, we’re going straight back to that lot, and you’re going to return that bike.”  

“¡ _No es justo_!” Oscar stomped childishly. “It’s ours, Imelda! You can’t tell us what to do with it!”

“Not another word!” She pointed to the hallway. “Go.”

“But—”

“Ah!”

“Imel—”

“Zzp!” She mimed zipping her lips. “No!” She added, pointing her shoe at Felipe when he opened his mouth. They looked to Héctor, who shrugged helplessly. They looked back to Imelda, who brandished the shoe at the hall, urging them on.

 Their faces flushed, frustration and anger brewing behind their eyes in a fierce tempest. Imelda recognized the look with a start—it was like Papá. They were always as quiet as their father had been, but it seemed that they had his _temper_ as well as his temperament. She faltered, having never seen them this way before. She’d seen them exasperated and irritated, and even annoyed, but never outright _fuming_. That was her job!

“You’re not our mom!” Felipe broke first, despite being the quieter of the two. “You’re just our dumb sister! What do you know!?” He blinked back hot tears, mouth quivering.

“So?!” She shot back, offended. She knew she ought to keep her mouth shut, but the words poured out anyway. “As long as you live under my roof, you obey my rules!”

“Well—we _hate_ living here!” Oscar blurted. “At least Papá wasn’t a dictator like _you_!”  The room fell into a loud, painful silence. Imelda’s chest heaved, throat tightening more than she’d like to admit. She swallowed the lump, pointing again in the direction of the bedrooms.

“ _Go_.” They hesitated; Oscar looked contrite, but slammed Héctor’s chair under the table with a _crack_ as he stomped past. Felipe followed, hands in his pockets. He had the audacity to look wounded, as if _they_ were the ones in the right. The kitchen seemed empty and full at the same time, missing two people but containing the leftover force of their outburst. Héctor ran a hand through his hair, blowing his bangs with a low breath. He scratched his chin, looking from the bedrooms to his wife and back.

“’Melda?”

“Sit down and let’s eat.” Her voice was hollow and on the verge of tears, but her eyes were dry as she took her seat. She spread her napkin in her lap, ashamed to look at Coco. She was just trying to be a good mother, a good sister, and instead she just felt like the bad guy. _A dictator? Really?_

“Hey—” He reached for her hand and she pulled it away.

“Héctor. Eat.” She attacked her cold _bistec_ , shoving piece after piece in her mouth faster than she could chew. If she just kept eating, maybe she wouldn’t embarrass herself further with crying.

 “Um… May I be excused?” Coco asked in a tiny voice, looking between her parents. She didn’t understand everything, being too young to really remember the hospital visit. But she knew her mamá was sad, and her tíos were mad. Usually her papá would be cracking a joke or singing some silly song to make Mamá smile, but now he just stared at the fruit bowl and chewed his rice slowly. She didn’t like the ugly feeling in the kitchen now.

“Yes, _mija_.” Héctor nodded his permission. “You can go.”

* * *

 

_Ungrateful. Insensible. Idiotic._

Imelda stood at the sink, scrubbing at the white dress shirts. The soapy water had already turned a dingy off-beige with her efforts, and still she worked. The shirts had to be prewashed before anything set; while she thought about punishing them further and making them do the hard work, she wanted it done _right_. She hadn’t heard a peep from their bedroom, though she had heard the shower running earlier and knew they’d obeyed her demands to clean themselves up.

 _I give them jobs, I pay money to send them to a good school, they’re not homeless or starving—this is the thanks I get?_ She scrubbed harder, working her frustrations out on the poor shirts. _I can’t believe they’d—_

“Hey… any harder and you’re going to tear a hole.” Two hands settled on her waist, squeezing gently before snaking around to her stomach, a warm chest flush with her back. She sighed, resisting the urge to splash him with the dirty water. It might make him go away, but then she’d have to clean the floor as well.

“I’m not in the mood, Héctor.” Lips pressed against her shoulder in response, hugging her closer to his lithe frame. “Get your big nose off of me!” Her hands fisted in the shirt, prepared to make the clothes into a weapon.

“They’re just kids.” He murmured the words against her skin, kissing a comforting trail up to her ear. She found herself relaxing against him, a weary breath escaping as her shoulders slumped. “They say things they don’t mean.” She began to scrub again, nails digging into the fabric as she worked soap into the white cloth.

“They meant that.”

“They did not.” She looked up to see him watching her reflection in the window, cheek pressed against her hair. _Stupid H_ _éctor, with his elephant ears and cute eyelashes...._ She grumbled, trying to ignore how the sight of him could still make her flustered, especially when he was looking at her like _that_.

“They did.” She turned back to the task at hand, trying to keep the blush off her cheeks. “I’m just the dumb sister who put a roof over their dumb heads and free shoes on their dumb feet.”

 _“_ Who loves her dumb husband and their dumb daughter,” he laughed, arms tightening around her midsection. “In their dumb old house in a dumb little town.” She found herself smiling, despite everything.

“What a dumb life.” Her wet hands covered his as they rested on her stomach, and she twisted to kiss his jaw. He hummed appreciatively. “And dumb me loves every minute of it.”

“So do I, _mi amor_. We’re two of a kind.”

“ _You_ might think that, but I don’t agree.” He snorted, but didn’t reply. He held her as she rinsed out Oscar’s shirt, letting it sit in the dish drainer while starting Felipe’s. He hummed a little tune, foot keeping a slow rhythm as his chin rested on her shoulder.

“I, uh—I went outside to look at the bike.”

“ _Ugh_.” She stopped, rolling her eyes. “You were doing _really_ well there for a minute, Héctor. Don’t spoil it.” 

“I’m just saying.”

“ _I’m_ just saying: they’re not keeping it.” She attacked a streak of muddy earth with fervor. “End of discussion.”

“I have to give them credit: it’s a sweet ride.”

“Do you _want_ me to smother you with this shirt?” She hunched over the sink. “Keep talking, _músico_ : let’s see where you find yourself sleeping tonight.” He ignored her threats, his hips bumping against hers lightly as he leaned down to growl right in her ear.

“You know… you and I could take it for a little spin after Coco’s asleep,” he ventured, voice dropping just enough that a shiver ran down her spine. She put the shirt down, letting it soak in the water as she turned to press her back against the sink.

“ _H_ _éctor_.” She arched her brows, letting him know without a word exactly what she thought of the idea. He wasn’t perturbed, a sultry smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Think about it, ‘Melda.” His brows wiggled suggestively, looking more like squirming caterpillars than anything remotely sexy. “You, me, the open road?” His voice fell even lower as he loomed over her, bracing his hands against the counter. “I know you’d like it.”

“The answer is _no_.” She turned back to the sink; he nearly bit his tongue, jerking away to avoid bumping heads. “I have no desire to die on your _open road_.”

“Ah, you wouldn’t die.” He played with the loose hair at her nape. “I’d take care of you.”

“I barely trust you with the _car_ , Héctor. Why would I let you take me on a two-wheeled death trap?” He clicked his tongue, letting go of her hips to lean against the counter beside her.

“Look, real talk.” He snapped his fingers under her nose, forcing her to look at him. “I’ve been really thinking it over.”

“Oh? Have you?” He frowned at her; it was enough to shut her up. _He really is serious._

“Those two? They’re going to get that bike, whether you want it or not. I can tell how dead-set they are on it. Real boneheads.” She knew that he spoke the truth. She’d known it even as she told them how they were going to take it back. But she didn’t want to think about that, not now. Putting her foot down had always worked in the past; there was no reason it wouldn’t work again. But for some reason, Héctor didn’t seem so sure.

“I meant what I said, Héctor. My house, my rules. If they don’t like it…” she trailed off, purposefully leaving the sentence unfinished. She didn’t know exactly _what_ they could do about it. Go back to Mamá? They’d flunk senior year. She’d wanted them to have a good education and even a university degree, if she could have convinced them to go. Just because she worked in a shoe shop didn’t mean they had to. They were smart boys, they had talent that would—she wasn’t too proud to admit—go to waste in a _zapatería_.

“If we say no,” Héctor continued, picking at the counter, “they’re going to get another. Even if they have to run off by themselves to do it. It’s just how men are, _mi amor_. They’re going to chase that dream.” She hazarded a glance, seeing his distant expression. The emotions swam in his eyes, but he looked past her to some far-off memory. “Even if it’s the wrong dream. If it feels right at the time….” He was speaking from experience, now. She sighed, chewing her lip as she thought. She couldn’t say that they wouldn’t—she didn’t think _he’d_ run off, either, not until she saw the packed suitcase in his hand.

“What do you suggest?”

“Let them keep it.” She huffed, pushing back her bangs until they clung wetly behind her ears.

“Why on earth would you—”

“Hear me out.” He tapped the metal rim of the sink, mouth pursed. “Listen, if we let them have it, at least they’ll stay here.”

“They just said—”

“Oh, do you _really_ believe that those two would take a hike if they didn’t have any money?” He laughed. “They’d be dead in two days, and they both know it. They just said it to make you mad.”

“They’re going to get themselves killed.” She rinsed out Felipe’s shirt as well, draining the water before starting to wring them out. “Don’t you remember? The night you came home, I was at the hospital because they thought it would be a good idea to _jump sheep_.”

“They were younger! Surely they know better now. I don’t think you have to worry about them pulling crazy stunts. They just want some freedom, Imelda. _Escúchame_ : if they go to Mexico City with that bike, it’s all over. At least if they stay in Santa Cecelia, we can keep an eye on them. Everyone in town knows each other, and word travels fast. We have half a chance of making them behave.”

“We’re talking about Oscar and Felipe, Héctor. Do you really think they’ll behave themselves for one minute if we let them out of our sights?”

“If we just set some ground rules, then—”

“If I say yes and they end up dead… it’s over! What am I supposed to tell my family? They dug their own graves, and I handed them the shovel!” 

 “Imelda.” His voice was firm now. “You gotta stop acting like they’re kids. They’re grown up. You have to start letting them make their own decisions. This bike was all their own decision. Whatever happens, good or bad: they have to live with it, and we do too.”

“They’re _not_ grown up.” He stopped her, his hand covering hers.

“When I was their age, we had a child.” _Damn_. He did have a point. It was hard to think of her baby brothers as the same age Héctor was when Coco was born. Hell, she’d only been one year older! “What’s more irresponsible: a motorbike, or taking on an actual baby?” He looked her in the eye, seeing the answer written on her face. “You know I wouldn’t have done it any other way, but… well, we were kids ourselves. And yet we were adults, too.”

“Yes….” She frowned, grinding her back teeth as she thought. She hated when Héctor was like this, all serious and making points she couldn’t refute. He kissed her cheek, resting his forehead against her temple.

“I know you worry about them, _mi amor_. But we can’t protect them forever.”

“You just remember this when Coco is eighteen,” she mumbled, turning to rest her cheek on his chest. His heart thumped beneath her ear, the sound familiar and soothing. “I’ll think about it.” Not agreeing, but not saying he was wrong.

“Think it over,” he agreed. “And don’t even _start_ to talk about Coco. She’s not going to be eighteen for, like… thirty years.”

“She’s already six.” He groaned.

“Don’t remind me!” He pulled back, looking down at her. “You _will_ think about it, right?”

“I’ll think.” She frowned. “Did they put you up to this?”

“No, but I think they owe me big.” He ran his thumb over her cheek. “Give me a kiss?” She smirked, reaching for his collar and dragging him to her level. Their lips barely brushed when there was a banging at the door, melodic but harsh.

“Who—?” She glanced at the clock. It was _way_ too late for guests, especially on a weeknight!  He untangled himself from her, shrugging with an easy grin.

“Probably the neighbors, ready to complain about the bike parked on their dog.”

“¡¿ _Qué_?!”

“Joking! I’m joking!” He held up his hands, stumbling into the table as he turned to go into the front room. Coco emerged from the hall, already bathed and dressed in her nightgown. She fisted one eye, frowning at them.

“Papá, it’s time for the night song,” she announced sleepily.

“Ay! A song about remembering, and I nearly forget!” He smacked his palm against his forehead, adopting his most rueful smile.

“Let your papá see who’s at the door, and then he’ll take you to bed.” Imelda knelt, holding out her arms. “Come give me a hug, _mija_.” Coco bounded over to her, flinging herself into her mother’s arms. “Mmmm….” She held her tightly, kissing her above the ear. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Coco looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you still mad, Mamá?”

“A little.”

 “Oh.” Coco leaned against her leg. “Are you going to be mad at them tomorrow, too?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Can I ride the bike before they take it back?”

“Not a chance.” As if she’d ever let Coco on one of those things! She had better be dead in the ground before the thought even crossed their minds!

“Please!”

“No, Coco. You are _not_ going to a motorbike, and that’s final. I don’t even want to hear about it.”

“But—”

“Aren’t you going to say anything to me? Or do I have to stand out here all night?” Both girls turned to the entryway. Coco was curious, having never heard such a voice before; Imelda was shocked.

“E-Ernesto!?” Héctor’s amazement rang in the exclamation. Imelda’s eyes widened, Coco leaving her arms to peer around the doorframe at this new visitor. He was a tall, broad man that she’d never seen before, and he currently embraced her papá so hard that his long legs lifted right off the ground. “¡ _Qué sorpresa_!” he wheezed, eyes bugging as he was hugged within an inch of his life. “Wha—what are you doing here?!”

“What do you mean?” Ernesto sat him down, clapping both shoulders with a laugh. “A man can’t visit his own _amigo_ when he’s in town?” He swayed slightly, offering a barely-drunk smile before punching said _amigo_ on the arm. Héctor laughed, rubbing the arm with a wince.

 _He’s up to something._ Imelda didn’t need to look at him twice to know it. It was a feeling as deep as the marrow in her bones, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. There was no way in hell that Ernesto de la Cruz left Mexico City for sleepy little Santa Cecelia unless he needed something from them.

Héctor had always been blind to Ernesto’s little games—no, that wasn’t true. Héctor knew exactly what Ernesto was up to nine times out of ten; he just saw something in the man that Imelda couldn’t. He let his ‘friend’ walk all over him, smiling and shrugging whenever Imelda pointed it out. It frustrated her beyond belief because she _knew_ that Héctor could stand up to him: he just didn’t!

“I—of course!” Héctor stepped back, smile widening as he waved him inside. “Won’t you come in? I was just putting Coco to bed, but if you give me a minute I’d be glad to catch up. Did you get my last email?”

“Of course, of course.” Ernesto looked around at the dimly lit living space, mouth pursed. “Hmm….”

“Um… Imelda, look!” He turned, his face full of unbridled joy that shone even through his apparent confusion. “’Nesto’s back in town!”

“I see.” She crossed her arms, standing between him and her daughter, who continued to peer shyly in from the kitchen. “What do you want, Ernesto? Might as well spit it out.” She didn’t miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes, nor the twist of his mouth. But he smiled at her, and it seemed as genuine as anything Héctor could have given her.

“You’re as warm as ever, Imelda.” He held out his arms in what she guessed was supposed to be a happy, inviting gesture. “I just stopped in to visit Héctor, that’s all.”

“Bull—” She heard Coco move behind her; her jaw snapped shut, nostrils flaring. Héctor made a face behind Ernesto’s shoulder, his eyes begging her to behave herself. She took a quick breath, trying to force a smile on her face and settling for an apathetic expression. She would be civil, for her husband’s sake. But that didn’t mean she had to like it. Of course, both men knew of her true feelings towards him; she’d never kept it a secret. But she had been raised with manners, and Coco was watching. She couldn’t tell him exactly what she thought of him with a child in hearing range.

Héctor smiled as his eyes flitted between them, trying to think of something to break the tension in the room. He caught sight of Coco and reached out to her, motioning for her to come closer.

“Come here, _mija_ : do you remember your Tío Ernesto?” Coco shook her head at the question, running forward to hide behind Imelda’s legs. “It’s okay, he’s not going to bite.” Ernesto frowned at her, though there wasn’t any heat behind the look; he seemed at a loss for what to think of her. “Come on—that’s it.” Coco hurried across the room, hiding her face in her papá’s stomach and throwing her arms around his thin form. He put a hand on her head, motioning for Ernesto to speak. “Ernesto, you remember our little Socorro.”

“Ah, yes… how could I not?” His tone was light to the point of sarcasm. “She’s all you ever talk about.”

“She’s not _all_ I talk about,” Héctor argued. “I talk about Imelda, too.” He laughed at his own joke, though Ernesto didn’t seem to find it very funny.

“Yes… well.” He lost his smile entirely as he looked down, nose wrinkling. “Ah. _Hola_ , little girl.” He reached out hesitantly, fingers flicking as he considered the choice he was about to make. He lightly patted the top of her head, treating her as if she were something to be wary of, a stray dog on the street. “It’s— _nice_? —to see you.” Héctor beamed at him.

“Hey, come on.” He shook Coco’s shoulder gently. “Are you going to be shy? Say hi to Tío Nesto, or you’ll hurt his feelings.” She slowly emerged from the protection of his arms, looking up at this new, odd tío. He didn’t look like her other tíos, gangly and young. He didn’t look like anyone in Santa Cecelia, at that. His shirt was wrinkled, the bottom of his unhemmed pants frayed by admittedly low-quality boots. His eyes were faintly bloodshot, his thin mustache overpowered by a heavy five o’ clock shadow, and his flat cap sat crooked on his head.

To her parents, he looked like a man who’d been on a long journey… a journey that clearly involved alcohol at one point. But to her, he looked like something else entirely. Something her mother had talked about before, but she’d never seen in person. Teacher had always told her to ask questions if she didn’t understand. That was how you learned about the world. And her parents had always told her to greet people with a smile, because it was polite. So, she looked up with a gap-toothed grin and asked as politely as she could:

“Are you a hobo?” There was a pause. Imelda couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that escaped, turning her back on the scene to hide her face. Héctor choked with laughter as well, trying to disguise it as a cough. He blinked rapidly, trying to look stern and only managing an expression that looked painful.

“Coco!” he admonished, wagging his finger at her. “We don’t ask those kinds of questions!”

“Why not?” she replied innocently, looking up at him. 

“I—well—we just don’t. Tío Nesto isn’t homeless; he’s… uh….” Héctor trailed off, frowning at the state of his friend’s clothing. “He’s been traveling, that’s all.”

“Like a hobo,” Coco summed up, thinking of the train-hoppers they showed on cartoons.

“No, not like a hobo!” Héctor looked as though he might shed tears if he held his laughter in any longer. “He’s been on a road trip.”

“Oh.” Well, that explained things. A train didn’t run on the road, so clearly he couldn’t be a hobo after all. Coco swallowed her disappointment, having been excited to meet a real vagabond. “You really _aren’t_ , are you?” she sighed at her new uncle. She watched as he turned a funny shade of red, the color spreading from the tips of his ears down to his collar. His mouth gaped like a fish, and then he made a funny noise that send Imelda into another round of muffled, gasping laughter.

“E-Ernesto?” Héctor reached for his shoulder, brows wrinkling.

“You rude little girl!” His hands clenched into fists. “Of course I’m not! Are you!?” Coco blinked, surprised. It was a valid question; he didn’t know her.

“No!” she answered seriously. “I live _here_.” 

“That’s not—”

“I’m six. How old are you?” Ernesto stopped short; he wasn’t used to being interrupted. Usually, it was _him_ doing the interrupting. And he certainly wasn’t used to being around children, or their disjointed questions.

“Twenty-eight,” he said, taken aback. Coco considered this information; twenty-eight was more than twenty-five, which was an _enormous_ number. It took forever to count to twenty-five, even if you do it by fives! Her eyes widened with the knowledge.

“Wow! You’re _old_!” she gasped with childlike wonder. To be as old as twenty-eight?! She couldn’t imagine being that old. That was even older than her parents, _and_ her tíos! Of course, she meant this as the highest of compliments. To be so old, he _had_ to be someone amazing. But he didn’t seem very happy to hear it at all.

“I am _not_!” he sputtered, face getting darker as both her parents burst into laughter. His hat slipped a little on his head, hair falling into his eyes. She grinned, biting her lower lip as she giggled.

“You’re funny, too!” 

“I am not!” She made up her mind, then and there. _He **is** my Tío Nesto after all. _Only her papá could have such an old, funny guy like that for his friend. And she resolved to love him, since he was benevolent enough to be _her_ tío. She pushed herself out of Héctor’s arms, running to this newcomer and wrapping her whole body around his nearest leg. She smushed her face against the rough denim of his jeans, grinning.

“Tío Nesto!”

“Ay! Ugh!” He tried to shake her off, balancing precariously on one leg. It only made her laugh harder. How did he know her favorite game? She thought only Papá played like this. She clung to him, laughing wildly as he tried in vain to kick her across the room. “Héctor! Your child has… attached herself!” He sounded utterly appalled. “Get her off, now!” Héctor was, unfortunately, laughing too hard to be of any real use.

“Sorry, Ernesto!” he hooted, holding his stomach. “She likes you; you’re in for life, tío!” Ernesto looked more and more uncomfortable, hands hovering in midair as he tried to make up his mind. This kid was as clingy as a monkey on a palm; would it be easier to just _pry_ her off? Coco smiled up at him, resting her chin on his upper thigh.

“I _like_ you!” she agreed. He stopped short, a look of confused disgust on his face.

“ _H_ _éctor_!” He yelled as Coco began to climb his leg; this—this _creature_ was going to strangle him if she went any higher, he just knew it! “ _Get. Her. Off!_ ”

“Alright, alright.” Imelda crossed the room, tears of laughter swimming in her eyes. “Don’t be such a big baby.” She yanked Coco off with one swift movement, depositing her safely on the middle cushion of the sofa. “Say goodnight to…” she paused, frowning, “ _Tío_ Ernesto. We’ll be there to tuck you in soon.” Ernesto adjusted his sleeves, watching her as though she were a live fuse.

“Goodnight!”

“Hmph.” He watched her bounce back through the entryway with a look of minor disgust. Héctor tried to hide his smile, shoulders shaking in silent mirth.

“We’re going to have to break you in, Ernesto,” he said. “You’re not used to kids.”

“Ha-ha.” Ernesto sniffed, rubbing over his scratchy chin and trying to gather his dignity. “She’s… a handful, isn’t she?”

“Oh, she’s just a little girl. She’ll grow out of it.” Héctor shrugged. “So, what brings you back this way in the first place? Do you have a gig near here? I didn’t see anything on your calendar.”

“About that…” Ernesto, turned to Héctor, shouldering Imelda out of the conversation. “Look, I need a _little_ favor of you—” He grunted as Imelda punched him in the spine, her face falling into anger before either man could blink.

“ _¡Ya lo sabía!_ ” Ernesto didn’t cower back from the harsh shout like Héctor, but he did lean away as she pointed a finger in his face. He’d learned the art of self-perseveration back in Héctor’s courting days, where he was often the third wheel on their escapades. “I _knew_ you were up to no good! You come back here after all these years and what’s the first thing out of your mouth?!”

“Imelda—” Héctor steered her by the shoulders, already working on his begging face. She knew it too well; it was almost always related to Ernesto in some way. _Please just one more time, this the last time, I promise, I really promise this time Imelda, it’ll only be this once—_ she’d heard all the excuses before, and was ready to argue with him even in front of company.  

“It’s just for a few days.” Ernesto gave them a charming smile, though it was the worst possible thing to do in this situation. Imelda’s face darkened, brows close to meeting over her nose. He chuckled nervously, tugging at the creased collar of his shirt before appealing to Héctor again. “You understand, don’t you? Just until the next royalty check is processed. I spent my last peso on a bus ticket, I don’t have anything for a hotel—”

“Why did you come back if you couldn’t afford it?” Imelda put her hands on her hips, looking very much like her own mother in the moment. “That was kind of stupid, wasn’t it?”

“I—” He made a face at Héctor, who rolled his shoulders in a quick shrug. Héctor knew better than to stop Imelda before the time was right. He wasn’t in the mood to share the couch with him, best friend or not. Ernesto sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s so demanding to be a musician these days. You wouldn’t understand.” Imelda’s lip curled in a sneer.

“Try me, Mr. Musician.”

“You have to remember to line up venues and keep your schedule straight, and allow for travel times and hotel reservations, not to mention the cost of equipment and the airfare, and if you try to _hire_ someone to do that for you, their prices are outrageous—” He stopped, running out of breath.

“So,” she summed up, shifting her weight to one hip. “You got tired of doing everything that Héctor used to do for _free_.” It was clear by his expression that she’d hit the nail on the head. Still, he waved off the accusation with a forced laugh.

“Don’t be silly!” He rolled his eyes at her. “I just thought that if Héctor can make a living here as a songwriter, then _I_ can make a living here as a musician.”

“Oh really?”

“It’s 2012! The age of the internet!” He clapped his hands together.

“You’re right!” Héctor bounced on his heels. “I can help you! We can make you a website, and a YouTube page. And you can play locally, too! There’s always a wedding, or a birthday, or—”

“See!? There we go!” Ernesto took him by the cheeks, making him lift to his tiptoes. “Such a smart boy! Exactly what I was thinking! So, can I stay?” Héctor turned to Imelda.

“ _Mi amor,”_ he simpered. “If he’s got no money—” Imelda pushed him to the side, grabbing Ernesto’s chin and dragging him down until they were nose-to-nose.

“You _really_ spent it all on a bus ticket? You want me to believe you had exact change?” she asked with a deadly calm. His schmoozing grin faded as she pressed down, fingers digging into the meat of his jaw.

“Well… I _might_ have stopped at the casino on the way—”

“Uh-huh.” She let go abruptly, pushing him in the direction of the door. He stumbled into the side table, the lamp rocking. “There’s a park bench down the street, _a-mi-go_. Until your check drops, you can sleep _there_.”

“Imelda!” Héctor clasped his hands, wringing them as he looked imploringly at her. “C’mon, give the guy a break. He’s my best friend; he won’t be in the way! He can sleep on the sofa, o-or I can make him a bed in the—”

“Absolutely not! He got himself into this mess, he can get himself out. Did you not just tell me about adults taking _responsibility_ for their own decisions?” She crossed her arms. “Or are you just a hypocrite, Héctor?” He looked between her and his friend, clearly caught in a place he’d hoped never to be again.

“Just _one_ night?” he beseeched. She grabbed him by the ear, yanking him down. “Ay!”

“That man is a street dog,” she snarled in his ear. “If you give him food and a place to sleep, he’ll never _leave_. I’m not having a deadbeat waste his life on my sofa. You want him to live with you? Pack and bag and move.” Héctor wilted, looking down at his socks. Ernesto stood sullenly in the corner, nursing his banged hip.

“Can we just put him in a motel for the night?”

“Héctor!”

“Please?”

“ _H_ _éctor_.”

“ _Please_?!” She closed her eyes, but his goofy face was already branded onto the surface of her brain. _Damn you… you know I can’t resist when you do that pouty-thing._

“Ugh. Fine.” She shook her head, frowning as he gave a little leap of excitement and kissed her cheek. “You!” She pointed at Ernesto. “You can’t stay here… but we’ll put you in the motel for a week. _One_ week. The check will drop, and you’re on your own. Got it?”

“Ah.” He was all smiles again. “ _Gracias,_ Imelda. You don’t know how—”

“Do you want to have children, Ernesto?” Her heel tapped a threatening staccato against the floor. “Because if you do, you should leave while you’re ahead.” The smile flopped.

“ _Dios te bendiga_.” His jaw twitched. “For all that you do.”

“Ah-ha-ha…” Héctor threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the door. “C’mon, Nesto. I’ll walk you to the motel. Where’s your luggage?”

“Funny story about that—” The door slammed shut behind them, and she sighed. _That’s the last thing I need. First the twins, now this idiot._ She knew Héctor had deep, brotherly ties to the man, but that didn’t make him any less of a conniving leech. Coco came back into the room, looking at her before staring around the empty space.

“Tío Nesto didn’t stay?”

“No.” _Thank God_. “He’s, uh—he’s gone back to his place.”

“Aw… I wanted to play with him.” She raised a brow, unable to stop a smile from crossing her face. She didn’t want Coco to be influenced by that jerk, but he seemed _frightened_ of her. Maybe if she let Coco _play_ with Ernesto a few times, he’d be scared into staying away. A hazy plan formed in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away as Coco added, “Isn’t Papá going to sing with me?” _Ugh. Leave it to him to forget completely._

“Why don’t I sing it with you? Papá has… to… to sing it to Tío Ernesto tonight.” She bit her lip, hoping that Coco wouldn’t make much of a fuss. “Do you mind?” Coco thought it over, sighing before shaking her head.

“If he needs it, then I guess I don’t mind,” she said glumly.

“That’s my good girl.” Imelda picked her up, kissing her warmly. “Come on. I’m not your papá, but I’ll try my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: I didn't want to make the twins too OOC, but knowing how teenagers are.... sneaking in, doing things behind their parent's--or guardian's--back, being little brats: Imelda has her hands full, especially since she has two at the same time. 
> 
> The joke originally was that Ernesto is this deadbeat guy stuck in hipster fashion, having an early mid-life crisis. He constantly breaks into the house and crashes on the sofa in the middle of the night, eats all of their food and keeps Héctor busy with his schemes. Kind of like Cosmo Kramer. Coco adores him even if Imelda doesn't, and I tried to make him as much of a self-important jerk as I could while toning down the whole murder thing. He just really wants to be part of something, wants the love and connections that being in a family gives him, but hangs out on the fringes of their lives because he doesn't have the capacity to swallow his pride.


	3. The First Day of School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first day of school, and the routine is still unbroken... even if Coco is the only one that still attends.

Oscar’s eyes flew open, his body tensing.

This was highly unusual. Normally Felipe was the light sleeper, but Oscar could hear his twin snoring across the bedroom. He wiped his eyes with a grunt, tentatively emerging from the blanketed cocoon he’d managed to make for himself whilst asleep. He didn’t remember any dreams, certainly not any disconcerting enough to jerk him out of deep sleep. And the world was quiet-ish—or as quiet as Monday morning could get.

The sun was still rising, barely high enough to throw a pale square of light onto the wall above his blanketed feet. He stretched out his neck like a tortoise, looking over the cluttered table between the two small beds to check on his brother. Felipe was sprawled sideways across his mattress, shirt riding up his stomach and blankets kicked off the side of the bed. He could hear Imelda humming in the kitchen, the muted clatter of dishes being unloaded from the dishwasher. Don Rodríguez’s old jalopy fired up with a cough and a sputter, pattering down the road towards the heart of town.

Oscar retreated under the covers, the stifling coziness of his bedsheets enveloping him in a warm lethargy. They’d crept in late that night—or, rather, early that morning—and a tired headache was beginning to thump behind his eyelids. A little more sleep would cure it, at least until Imelda marched in and dragged them up by their collars. _She_ didn’t care what time they came in, or how much sleep they had. It was their own fault if they couldn’t make it home at a decent hour, and work _always_ began at 8:00 sharp.

As annoying as her callous behavior could be, it was the price they paid for staying in the Rivera house as adults. Even though they were in their mid-twenties now, neither he nor Felipe saw any reason to move out and find their own place… yet. It was a matter of practicality, rather than any real dependency on Imelda. They worked in the _zapatería_ , their work shed was in Imelda’s backyard, and they got three square meals (plus laundry service) in exchange for occasional babysitting. No rent, no bills, no stairs to climb, no annoying neighbors. It was an almost perfect existence.

Though not without drawbacks. 

Oscar heard a muffled giggle, and then a rapid-fire strum of guitar strings. His entire body seized again, for an entirely different reason. His eyes widened, face sinking down into the blankets. _I know that tune… oh, **no** — _His mental panic was cut by two sharp _gritos_ : one high and shrill, the other deep and long.

“ _Ay_ ….” Felipe groaned, raising onto one elbow and looking around in confusion. Oscar motioned for him to get down, but his hands were tangled in the blankets. It was too late, anyhow: the firestorm had arrived. The bedroom door flew open and slammed against the far wall with a well-placed kick. It rattled the windowpanes, knocking a mostly empty can of compressed air from the nightstand.

“ _OOOHHHH_ , _it’s… the…._ ”

Oscar yanked the blankets to cover his head completely, hiding like a child and leaving Felipe to his fate. His brother was beyond saving. Even with the quilt and the bedsheets, there was no stopping the loud singing and enthusiastic guitar chords.

“ _First day of school, so wake up! Wake up!_ ” He grunted, the breath knocked out of him as his niece leapt onto the bed. She landed on all fours, nearly cracking a rib—or both his kneecaps—as she jerked the blankets off his head. Her papá flipped on the lights, twirling into the room on the heel of his shoe and providing both background singing and musical accompaniment. Oscar squinted against the brightness of the uncovered bulb, his headache quickly becoming a migraine. Felipe flopped onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow with muffled curses.

“ _Everybody in the house, wake up! Wake up!_ ” Coco bounced on him as she sang, her round face glowing with a gap-toothed smile. “Good morning, Tío Oscar!” she added, granting him a face full of minty fresh breath. She clambered onto her feet, hands on her hips as she proudly displayed her new, freshly ironed school uniform. “It’s time to get up!”

“ _Sí_ ,” Héctor agreed heartily, his hair as messy as ever above a scrubbed face. He stopped playing long enough to rap his knuckles lightly on the back of Felipe’s head. When that garnered no response, he yanked the pillow out from beneath him with the speed of a man whipping a tablecloth from beneath fine china. Felipe pressed his cheek to the bare mattress, groaning under his breath with limbs as limp as Coco’s favorite ragdoll. Héctor pressed a long finger to his cheek, pressing down with a coo. “Wakey wakey, _dormiloncito_!”

 “Mmph,” came the eloquent reply, along with a halfhearted slap in his direction.

“We’re not even in school anymore,” Oscar complained as he rubbed his eyes on the edge of his quilt. The silly song was one of the more annoying Rivera traditions, born in a time when three children had to be dragged out of bed instead of one. Not even one, now; Coco still enjoyed school, and didn’t need anyone to yank her off the mattress by the ankles. _Yet_.

“We need our sleep,” Felipe moaned in agreement. Coco shook her head them, clicking her tongue in a perfect mimicry of her mother.

“It’s the first day of school,” she protested, bouncing on the bed. The headboard shook against the wall, her new ribbons flying as her plaits flopped about her shoulders. It was impossible to ignore the minor earthquake, Oscar’s teeth rattling in his skull as he tried to keep his tired eyes locked on her. “Besides, this is a _special_ first day of school,” she explained, showing off the hem of her blue pleated skirt. “Today’s my first-ever day of _secundaria_. I’ll never have another very-first day. Were you going to miss it?” she pouted, leaning over him and lifting one eyelid.

“No, of course not,” he lied through his teeth. “Uh… we just expected you to save us for last.”

“We _did_ save you for last. Didn’t you hear Tío Nesto yelling?” _Oh… yes._ He had heard that, hadn’t he? That must have been what originally woke him up. It was no surprise he hadn’t really connected the dots; after six years of listening to Ernesto de la Cruz shouting at the top of his lungs, it faded into the white noise of daily life. He hadn’t paid any attention to it until she pointed it out for him. Looking up at her, he felt a rare vein of something like sympathy for the man.

“I guess you jumped on him too, right?” Coco grinned.

“It didn’t hurt him,” she quipped, sounding just like her mother. She’d heard the same said not ten minutes before, no doubt. _Serves him right,_ a darker part of his mind piped up with a chuckle. _That’s what you get for not going to your own house._ He couldn’t argue with that logic, and the sympathy he might have otherwise felt vanished in a puff of smoke. _He_ lived here; being woken up by a kid was something to be expected every so often. Ernesto had a choice, and if that choice had the consequence of being tackled by a twelve-year-old, then who was he to complain?

Ever since he came back to Santa Cecelia, Ernesto had developed the weird habit of just… showing up. He was there when they woke up, stealing a cup of coffee and watching cable, or showing up uninvited to drag Héctor on some money-making scheme, or just hanging around and complaining while staying out of Imelda’s shoe throwing range. He even ended up on their sofa in the middle of the night, sleeping off whatever liquor he’d managed to find and using someone’s shower before stumbling back home. Imelda didn’t like him, but she tolerated him for Héctor’s sake. The twins didn’t like him, but only because he always had a few scathing remarks up his sleeve and they weren’t the best at rebuttals. 

Coco, however, loved him.

For whatever reason, the child had attached herself to her ‘third tío’ from day one and _refused_ to let go. She was utterly enamored, listening to his stories of grandeur in the music industry for hours on end without complaint. She could often be found on Saturday mornings, sitting on the couch with his legs draped over her lap, watching cartoons while waiting for him to finish sleeping off his stupor. _Or,_ if she was in an energetic mood, she seemed to take a delight in torturing the hungover has-been by yelling in his ear to wake up and play. Imelda found that hilarious, though she—and the rest of the family—did note that his distaste for children cooled to apathy where Coco was concerned. 

“No, Tío Felipe! You can’t go back to sleep!” Oscar bounced as she jumped from his bed to Felipe’s in one frog-like bound. She braced against the far wall, nearly sitting on her uncle before scrambling around to shake his shoulders. “Stay awake!”

“ _Cocoooooo_ ….” The man was catatonic, unable to garner enough strength to push her off. “We’re tired….”

“Late night?” Héctor said knowingly, leaning over to tickle the exhausted man’s mustache. Felipe’s nose wrinkled and he pushed his hand away, rubbing over his eyes with a yawn.

“Too late,” Oscar sighed.

“Let’s see… 2:00?”

“Make it 3:00,” Felipe corrected, hand flopping listlessly over the side of the bed. “What time’s it now?”

“6:45!” Coco announced, a little _too_ chipperly. Both men groaned.

“ _Pobrecitos_ ,” Héctor laughed. “It’s your own fault, though. Staying out so late on a school night.” He chuckled again, twisting his guitar behind his back and lifting Coco off Felipe. She giggled, wiggling in his arms before falling with a thump to the ground and shooting off into the hallway, fueled by sugary cereal and excitement.

“We didn’t think about it being the first day of school,” Oscar protested wearily. “Do you think we’re worried about school anymore?”

“You’ll remember to check from now on, won’t you?” Héctor winked at him, stuffing his hands in his pockets and singing the last few words of the First-Day-of-School song acapella. “ _Grab your pencils, grab your books; summer’s at an end_!”

“Ugh.” Felipe managed to roll onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Go away, Héctor.”

“Alright,” he consented, walking backwards from the room. “But you’ll have to hurry if you want to wrestle that coffeepot from Ernesto.” He shut the door behind him, kicking up his feet and humming as he followed his daughter back to the kitchen. From his bed, Oscar could hear Coco announcing to Imelda that her work was done, the entire house now being awake.

“He’s not wrong,” Oscar said, more to himself than to his brother. Ernesto would have the entire pot finished on his own, if left to it. Felipe let out an answering huff, rolling himself off the mattress with a heave and searching the floor for where Héctor had put his pillow. Oscar stretched in place, spine cracking from his legs all the way up to the base of his skull. He’d been in the driver’s seat last night and had a nasty habit of hunching over the handlebars. It gave Felipe more room in the back, but Oscar knew from personal experience that there was more than enough room when _he_ rode on the back and Felipe sat up straight.

The two climbed from their beds, turning to tuck the sheets neatly back onto the bed and smooth them across the mattresses. Imelda could tolerate a messy room, but she insisted that the beds be made each morning. They’d lived there long enough that it had become second-nature, and the morning never felt right if they skipped this vital part of their routine.

Felipe dragged his feet on the way to the closet in a sluggish haze, only to shock himself on the metal doorknob. He yelped, shaking his hand and frowning at the cold, unfeeling metal before opening the closet door. Oscar left him to it, going to their threadbare dresser and yanking open the drawers.

The top drawer of the dresser was Oscar’s, the bottom drawer Felipe’s. Anyone outside of the family would have just seen two drawers, identical down to the number of socks and exact placement of neatly folded undershirts. Regardless of how it _looked_ , they kept meticulous records of what clothing belonged to who. On every pair of boxers, on the tag of every undershirt, on the inside of each sock was a brand in permanent marker: F, or O. Clean clothing found itself folded on the foot of the appropriate bed, ready to be put away. That was fine: they only trusted each other to put the clothes correctly in the right drawer, and in the right order at that.

The closet was the same way. The right side belonged to Oscar, the left to Felipe. The center was taken up by a rickety metal shelf they’d purloined from the laundry room, three stories high. The bottom tier was unfinished shoe ideas, from baby Coco’s self-walking shoes to their latest creation of ‘fish-flops’… flip-flops that looked like two herring. The middle shelf held metal bits and bobs for the bike, or other small appliances, including the casing and wiring of the front outside light they’d taken down years ago and never put back up. The top shelf was reserved for two identical pairs of Rivera brand hiking boots: size 11, double-stitched, waterproofed both inside and out. The hangers held identical jeans, identical shirts, two neatly pressed suits inside two plastic dust covers, and several old school uniforms.

 Oscar pulled out two pairs of underwear, socks, and undershirts from the drawers while Felipe picked today’s outfit, which ended up being jeans and discolored white tee-shirts. They dressed silently, habitually making sure they were putting the right letters on their bodies before picking up their glasses from the middle nightstand. They stared down first at their glasses, then the other’s glasses, and promptly swapped before settling them on their noses. When they were through, the mirror showed a perfect clone-copy down to the ragged cowlicks sticking up over their foreheads.

They went next door to the bathroom, the fit a tight squeeze now that they were older. They were both still bone-thin, as their mother liked to point out every time she visited, but they’d managed to fill out some after the stresses of their school days were over. They were never going to equal Ernesto’s broad chest, but they still managed to beat Héctor’s skinny frame with the wiry muscles they’d gained from years of handling their motorbike, stacking rolls of leather, and hefting heavy boxes for their sister.

They brushed their teeth quickly, and then turned attention to their hair. Oscar smoothed down Felipe’s, and Felipe smoothed down Oscar’s, fighting the wet comb until they managed a neat part and smooth locks. The only thing that didn’t behave was that damn cowlick, which they both had long given up on. There was no use trying to fight a battle they couldn’t win, no matter how much grief Imelda gave them for it. A quick face scrub, wiping the sleep from their eyes, and they were as ready to face the world as two men on three hours of sleep could be.   

In the kitchen, Coco bounced at Imelda’s side, watching her cut the fruit that was going into her lunchbox. Imelda was dressed in her best suit, her hair smooth and shining with a purple ribbon adoring her usual bun. Héctor sat at the table, writing in his songbook with Imelda’s pen while his own pencil sat precariously behind his ear. Ernesto sat in Imelda’s chair next to him, red-rimmed eyes staring at the back of the cereal box without seeing it and a mug of black coffee between his hands.

Oscar pulled the milk from the fridge, sneaking a quick drink straight from the jug when Imelda’s back was turned while Felipe took bowls, spoons, and glasses from the cabinet. They sat in their usual chairs, grabbing Coco’s kid cereal instead of their own preferred corn flakes. They needed all the pep they could get, and her _choco zucaritas con malvaviscos_ along with the coffee _should_ do the trick. Imelda always complained that there was enough sugar in one bowl to kill a grown man, and they were willing to take the risk if it meant enough of a high to get through a morning of shoes.

“Good morning, you two.” Imelda looked over at them as she fastened the clasp to Coco’s lunchbox. She looked at the bags beneath their eyes, their dulled movements, and the corner of her mouth twisted in a self-righteous smirk. She probably thought that getting them up early would prove a point, or at the least teach them a lesson about coming in right before the crack of dawn….

“Morning,” they mumbled, pouring insane amounts of cereal on top of a miniscule puddle of milk in the bottom of their bowls. Oscar managed to nab the coffeepot, dividing the last of it equally between the two mugs; he couldn’t count it as a victory, since Ernesto didn’t seem to notice that it’d moved at all. He was watching Héctor write now that the cereal box was out of his reach—or rather, he was watching the light glinting off the pen’s metal clasp.

“I’m going with Coco to the morning assembly, so it’s up to you to mind the shop until I get back.” She handed Coco her lunchbox. “Remember that the Dance Academy should be by around noon to pick up their order; I have it stacked beneath the counter, but _make sure_ there are _twelve_ pairs, alright?” She bent to kiss Héctor’s cheek. “Twelve. Got it?”

“Got it,” they replied in unison. Héctor mumbled, agreeing under his breath as he crossed out a stanza and began to rework it on the opposite page.

“Don’t work too hard,” she told him, looking over his shoulder with a smile. Héctor had proved to be worthless at shoemaking. Not that he hadn’t _tried­_ ; on the contrary, he had stayed up past midnight for weeks on ends, trying to cobble something that looked like footwear instead of an Eldritch horror. Imelda had been physically nauseous at some of his worst designs, and she’d eventually conceded that while Riveras were shoemakers, through and through—Héctor was Héctor.

That didn’t mean she loved him any less, or that he couldn’t be of any help at all in the _zapatería_. What he lacked in shoemaking, he more than made up for in charisma. He was the friendly face of the shop, providing background music and lively chatter while customers browsed and waited for fittings. On top of that, many of the songs he wrote were being sung by the most famous voices in Mexico. The royalties he earned were more than enough to keep the Riveras comfortable, and so both husband and wife could do what they loved while still supporting the other.

“Papá, Papá! How do I look?” Coco stood in the middle of the kitchen with her ribbons neatly retied, new backpack over her shoulders and new lunchbox tightly in her grasp. She spun, the edges of her skirt rising over her knees as she showed off. Héctor looked up from his notes, watching her spin with a smile.

“Very beautiful!” he assured her. “You’ll do the Rivera name proud at this fancy-schmancy new school.”

“You really think so!?” Her grin spread from ear to ear as she looked to her mother for confirmation.

“Of course. How could you not, with those patent leather shoes your tíos made for you?” Oscar and Felipe smiled, looking down at the shined black leather of her Mary-Janes. They’d followed the school code to the letter while still managing to put the Rivera charm in each stitch, a gift in honor of her graduation to the upper grades. They knew without a doubt that those shoes could last her all the way to graduation from _preparatoria_ , although with the way she seemed to double in size every time they looked at her she would outgrow them long before then. “Now, come along and let’s get going. I don’t want you to be late on your first day.”

“Right!” Coco ran up and kissed her papá on the chin. “Bye, Papá.”

“Have a good day at school, _mija_.” She turned and jumped onto the lower rungs of Ernesto’s chair, boosting herself on the table to peck his cheek.

“Bye, Tío Nesto.” The act seemed to wake him up and he grunted, looking around for the coffeepot and scowling when he found it empty. Oscar and Felipe smirked at him over their bowls, sharing a devilish glance and laughing silently when he could say nothing to them. _You snooze, you lose_!

“Bye, Tío Oscar. Tío Felipe.” They leaned towards each other, receiving their own farewell kiss on their narrow cheeks.

“Have a good time. Make some friends.”

“Learn something we don’t know.”

“Eat your dessert first—”

“Don’t fall asleep in homeroom—”

“Don’t blow up the science lab on your first trip—”

“Don’t tell the teachers who your tíos are—”

“ _Ay_ , tíos!” Coco’s eyes spun dizzily as her head rocked from one to the other. “You’re confusing me!”

“Sorry. Have fun,” they summed up. Imelda shook her head, taking Coco by the shoulder and guiding her on ahead. They waved with Héctor from the archway until the front door shut with a slam. All pretense gone, Felipe reached for the milk and copied his brother’s earlier gulp before chasing it with a shot from his coffee mug.

“Already in secundaria,” he sighed as he set the milk back in the middle of the table. “It seems like only yesterday—”

“She was a little baby in the hospital—”

“She got her first tooth—"

“She was starting kindergarten—”

“She _lost_ her first tooth—”

“She sewed her first tongue—”

“Hammered her first sole—”

They fell silent, lost in memory as they chewed on their chocolate, cavity inducing bowls. Oscar nudged Felipe with his elbow, jerking his head to the opposite end of the table where the other two sat. Ernesto was slowly leaning away from Héctor, who sat stock-still in his chair with the pen dangling loosely from his fingers.

_T-minus three, two, one—_

“ _Ay-y-y!_ ” Héctor broke down, tears spilling over his cheeks as he slumped towards the table. “She’s gotten so _old_! Where’s my little girl?! She’s already twelve?! _Ernesto-o-o-o_ —” he wailed, oblivious to the fact that his friend was quickly coming alive, the breakdown doing more for his hangover than the coffee ever could as he scooted his chair out of arm’s reach.

“Get yourself together!” He demanded brusquely, looking more uncomfortable by the minute as Héctor began sobbing in earnest. “For the love of God, man!”

“I’m going to look up and she’ll be married, and then she’ll have babies, and then _they’ll_ start _secundaria_ , and then I’ll be old, and she’ll be grown and—what am I going to do?!” Ernesto winced as Héctor’s forehead hit the table with a thump, pencil falling out from behind his ear and rolling to the linoleum. He ran a hand through his hair, clutching it between his long fingers as he cried. He reached out and gingerly patted the top of his head, looking to the twins expectantly. Oscar and Felipe shared another glance, both thinking the same thing. They’d always been able to share conversations without saying a word, and now was no different.  

_I don’t want to be stuck here with that._

_Neither do I._

_Let’s go?_

_Let’s go._

They gulped back the rest of the coffee, burning their throats before standing.

“Well, better get ready to open the shop,” Felipe said brightly, slowly backing away as Oscar shoveled the last few mouthfuls of chocolate milk/marshmallow mix into his mouth. Ernesto stood up, his expression promising vengeful wrath if they dared to leave him alone with Héctor when the man was an emotional wreck.

“Cheer up, Héctor,” Oscar said, spitting cereal by accident in his hurry to leave.

“Yeah, cheer up. Can’t have the customers crying.”

“O-Okay, I’ll t-try…” He looked up at them, mouth wobbling. “It’s just… my little girl-l-l!” He fell straight back into round two, wiping his eyes. “Ernesto, hold me—”

“Eww, no!”

“Just until Imelda gets back—”

“I said _no!_ ” He jumped from the table, recoiling from the watery mess in front of him. “Get back here! He’s _your_ brother in law!”

“He’s your _amigo_!” They called back, scurrying to the front before he could catch them. Even hungover, Ernesto had the aura of a man who just _might_ make good on a threat. And they couldn’t waste time trying to make Héctor shut up—why try? When Coco started kindergarten, he cried for a solid hour before managing to pull himself together. The man made good music, but he was a little _too_ in tune with his emotions.

Oscar opened the front door of the shop while Felipe opened the service window, taking Imelda’s place behind the counter with friendly smiles and picking up their current work orders. They began to sew, their movements in unpracticed unison while the muffled sounds of the main house carried through the thin walls.

“Just a little hug, that’s all I’m asking—”

“I’m not _holding_ you!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:   
> These chapters are going to start falling in the 'oneshot' category. Loosely connected, but not following any overarching story-line.   
> We joke that it's a Coco AU sitcom, and so you can consider these chapters as individual episodes of the same ridiculous TV show. ;)


	4. The Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids need to learn to move when asked nicely.  
> Don't mess with bikers (even nerdy ones).

The sun was merciless.

It beat down from a clear, cloudless sky, baking the leaves to a crisp and radiating off the dusty cobblestone streets. A haze stretched over the horizon, waves of heat warping in the breezeless causeways and burning the asphalt roads in the metro heart of the city. There was hardly anyone on the streets—only those on business dared to face the suffocating grip of the outside world. The children were in school, most adults at their jobs, and the rest clambering for someplace cool, where there was at the very least a fan to stir the thick air. Even the town’s protective forces were procrastinating on their midday rounds, lounging in the air-conditioned interior of the Santa Cecelia Police Dept.

Calle Juarez was deserted, which made it perfect for the deal about to take place. Once a thriving business hub in the early 1900s, it was now just a cramped side street, home to a few beloved local businesses and flanked by a garbage-strewn alleyway. It faced the broad expanse of river backwaters that had once separated the rich and poor sides of town. The lines had blurred in the revolution years, and instead of poor tenants across the rusted metal bridge there were now neighborhoods of landowners who’d lived there for generations, since the days of their destitute ancestors.

The deal was to take place in front of the _tienda de autopartes_. It was a relatively open place to make illicit exchanges, but those involved were too bold—or too wary of the other—to worry about being seen from across the river, or from anyone walking along the cracked sidewalk in front of the shops. There wasn’t any place more secluded that would benefit either party, even if there was nowhere to hide should the police come sniffing around.

There were no real parking spaces, not like in the heart of town where lines had been meticulously painted after cars kept blocking the buses leaving the station. Here, there were only indentions where wheels and rain had gutted the furrows between gutter and sidewalk. It was on either side of these furrows that the two parties stood, a deep rut standing between them like a gulf.

The right party was one boy, clad in the red vest and white polo of the _preparatoria_. What he lacked in size he made up for in girth, earning him the name ‘El Monstruo’. When said by a compatriot, it was a term of endearment; all others whispered it in awe, cowering in fear of his colossal hands and irredeemable attitude. He ruled the lowest class with force, striking terror in the hearts of teenagers two and three years older. Despite being a newcomer, he had already made a name for himself amongst the teachers.

Sweat pooled beneath the rolls of his chin, where tufts of hair tried in vain to sprout to a full beard. It settled beneath his arms to stain the already dingy polo a nauseating off-yellow, dripping down the hairy arms to his gorilla-esque fists. Behind thick lenses, the dark, beady eyes locked on the other party, sizing them up as potential opponents; it didn’t seem to matter that he could snap them like twigs beneath his meaty arms, from the looks of things.

Across the gulf stood a pair, boy and girl. The boy also wore a _preparatoria_ uniform; though the clothing was the same—except for size—the difference was striking. There was not a thread out of place on the young man, who stood with the air and grace of one nearly twice his age. His shirt was blindingly white, tucked neatly into the waistband of his pressed pants and his creased vest was almost at a calculated, perfect angle to his collar. His hair was neatly cut and oiled, brushed into a perfect sweep across a narrow forehead that drew attention to beautiful black eyes.

At first glance he looked more like a valedictorian than a thug, but beneath the gorgeous fringe of his lashes lay a cool, calculated gaze that was found in most professional criminals. He was not just a devilish sort of boy—he was the undisputed leader of the _preparatoria_. Beneath the teachers’ blind eyes, he ran a tight ship with cruel authority. The bleating masses of students were beneath him; he dealt with the higher-ups in the student body, making sure _his_ name stayed at the top. For three years he’d singlehandedly groomed a family of thugs and thieves that mirrored some of the most ruthless gangs in the country.

The girl was his sister, a tiny twig dressed in the white blouse and blue skirts of the _secundaria_. She was already following devotedly in her brother’s footsteps; not only was she his protégé, she was his eyes and ears in the lower grades. He was grooming her, using the _secundaria_ as her own private playground to train in. She had two years to take it over and set up the skeleton framework for a devotee of her own choosing before moving to take his place in the _preparatoria_.

She was more openly defiant, though in a harmless, youthful way. It was her preferred disguise, in the same way that a neat uniform and charming smile suited her brother. Her hair was piled on her head and tied with a bright headscarf—against school regulations, of course. Her nails were filed to points and painted bright purple; the same color stained her thin lips, which closed occasionally around the pale pink bubblegum she smacked. Spiky studs climbed both sides of her ears, reaching towards her tightly controlled hairline.

She had skipped school at her sibling’s behest, both to learn how to deal in trade with others as well as to scope out the potential danger to her seat of power. El Monstruo might try to usurp the placeholder her brother would leave behind after his departure for university. Then again, her brother had already considered adding him as a useful ally; this trade would establish the boy’s character. Was he someone to invite into the upper echelons of their family, or was he someone to crush before he found himself with too much power? 

“Do you have the merchandise?” The leader’s voice was warm and calm, someone who sounded as if they could be trusted. He hardly ever raised it, and in doing so kept his vocal chords smooth and rich. It was whispered that he’d never felt the embarrassing pains of a cracking voice in puberty—that he’d always spoken in such dulcet ways. His sister squinted against the sun, shifting her weight to one hip as she watched her brother step forward, standing just on one side of the gulf and well within arm’s reach of El Monstruo.

“Do you have the money?” the other replied, panting slightly in the heat. “You were supposed to come alone. Are you that bad at following basic instructions?” The leader smiled, tilting his head before snapping. His sister stepped to his side, looking at the sweat stains on the humongous beast with distaste. She was almost half his size, but her demeanor alone made her seem as tall as the young man she stood beside.

“This is my sister. My business partner, in a sense.” The leader reached into his back pocket, revealing a small wad of money. It was hard-earned cash his lackeys had gathered for him, shaken from the disgusting populace between classes. “Besides, only fools go anywhere alone.” The implication of this wasn’t missed by El Monstruo, who merely arched a brow in imperious amusement.

“Strange. I’ve always heard that it’s better to never rely on others,” he replied casually, reaching into the pocket half hidden by his massive stomach. He opened his fist to reveal a closed switchblade. “You’ll want to inspect it first,” he said. He knew how to play the game. The leader nodded, and he flicked it open with a flash of metal. He held the blade between his thumb and forefinger, turning it dexterously so that every inch of it could be seen. The leader’s sister popped a bubble, leaning forward in interest with her eyes fully locked on the glint of the blade.

“I haven’t let it rust,” El Monstruo added, opening and closing it easily. It served twofold to show off his talents with the weapon. He even tossed it in the air, catching by the blade before holding it out towards the leader. “The money. Count it.” The leader popped the rubber band with the edge of his nail, sliding it down around his wrist before flipping the paper over and counting out ten creased bills. El Monstruo’s piggy eyes watched, checking for any sign of deceit before nodding as the leader rolled the band around the bills again.

“On the count of three: shall we?” Before El Monstruo could answer, there was the unmistakable sound of a motor from the main road. He turned, the leader and his sister looking around him as best they could. None of the three froze or bolted as children might be expected to do—instead, they simply stared to see who might be coming. The motor turned out to be no more than a motorbike, and they all turned back to their business without another word. The police didn’t have bikes, and anyone else who might be riding wasn’t worth their notice. They ignored it as it cut down the side street, slowing as the asphalt turned back to cobbled dust.

“Yes, on the count of three.” One boy held out his cash, the other holding out the handle of the knife. The sister looked on, bored and hot and hoping that their parents had already left the house for the day, so she could go home where the air was decently cool. The leader took the handle, the gargantuan hand of the monster closing around the wad of cash.

“ _Uno_.”

“ _Dos_.”

“Hey.” They turned again to see the motorbike slowing to a stop beside them. All three stared at its occupants, who stared back with indifference. The driver was a lanky man, dressed neatly in a two-piece set of motorcycle leathers. The natural mahogany of the leather was accented only with silver studs and buckles, and a plain belt keeping the pants cinched tight. Along with the round sunglasses on his long nose, it gave him the air of being a contender in some early 20th century derby.

A carbon copy of the driver stood on the back of the bike, using the frame and the crash bar as footholds. When they stopped completely, he rested his knee on the back of the seat to help keep the bike’s balance, one elbow on the driver’s shoulder. Two identical frowns, two identical head-tilts as they sized the three children up without a word. Even their boots were identical, down to the way the laces crossed twice over the middlemost studs.

“Hey,” the one on the back repeated—or perhaps parroted the driver, the kids weren’t sure. He nodded at them, pointing at the automotive store. “You’re in the way.”

“In the parking spot—” the driver added, stretching with both hands flush against the handlebars. 

“Get on the sidewalk—”

“Off the street, at least—” No one moved, though the parties both took back their trades and kept them tightly in hand. The sister looked at her brother, waiting for his signal. She wasn’t as good at reading adults as he was, and to be fair she hadn’t met an adult yet that wouldn’t snitch on a kid at the earliest opportunity. There was only one _secundaria_ in Santa Cecelia, and it would be too easy for them to get its number and call. Even if they _didn’t_ know who she was, the fact that a truant kid was on the streets meant that the police would be on guard. The boy merely wondered if his sister could outrun them on her thin high heels. He wasn’t above abandoning her to her fate to save himself, but it would be wasted work if the teachers tried to keep a closer eye on her.

 A hidden conversation passed between their eyes, and then the leader nodded subtly at El Monstruo. It was time to see what the fat one did under pressure from adults. El Monstruo, seeing both his peer and a little girl waiting for _him_ , knew he couldn’t back down. Even without knowing the leader’s ulterior motive, he knew that if he played the simpering fool for a couple of nameless adults then he’d be the laughingstock of the school. Word _would_ get out.

“ _I’m_ not moving,” he sneered, drawing himself up to full height as he stared down the bikers. They didn’t seem all that threatening—they weren’t even all that _old_. It was true that they had broad chests, but their limbs were more like sticks. They had no corded muscles, no power to throw behind a punch. And what adult would punch a kid, especially one that hadn’t seen his sixteenth birthday yet? There was a spanner sticking out of the driver’s pocket, but he didn’t worry about concealed weapons. Only a wacko would pull a gun on a kid in this one-horse town, and besides: he had his blade.

Their jackets were unadorned with patch or color. They didn’t have any visible tattoos to affiliate themselves to a gang. They looked like law-abiding citizens that just happened to drive a bike. They looked like pushover adults. They looked like _nerds_. The drier twisted to look over his shoulder, and seemed to share a private, wordless conversation with his twin.

“Shouldn’t you kids be in school?” the one on the back asked, looking pointedly over the rims of his sunglasses at the bright red vests of the boys.

“So what?” El Monstruo scoffed. “We don’t _have_ to be anywhere.” He’d been backtalking adults since he’d learned what words were. This was going to be a piece of cake.

“No,” the driver said. “He’s right. You really should be in school right about now. It’s… y’know… sort of required.”

“And?” Monstruo palmed the knife, forcing his smuggest expression on his face. “I’d like to see what you two oversized stick bugs think you’re going to do about it.” The one in front turned again, one brow arching perfectly over the rounded curve of his glasses as he mouthed ‘ _stick bugs_?’ at his twin. They shared another long, silent expression.

“Well?” The driver asked. The one in the back sucked in his cheeks, rolling his shoulders. He pushed the glasses up to rest on his forehead, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“I’m only going to say this one more time.” He opened them, giving the trio the full force of his glare. “ _Move_.” The order was calm, assertive, and yet it held the promise of something… darker. Something that just _might_ happen, if his demands weren’t obeyed.

“Tch!” Monstruo shook off the shiver that ran up his spine. “I got two words for you, twiggy: _hell no._ ” He turned back to the leader, giving the twins the cold shoulder. “C’mon, let’s—”

“Your choice.” The driver chuckled, the sound almost threatening.

“Your choice,” the one on the back agreed. With a practiced movement, he dismounted the bike easily and walked towards them, cracking his neck with a sinister smile. The driver swung the bike in a sharp arc, boxing in the children between the shops, the sidewalk, and his brother. The leader took a breath, a slight stiffening in his biceps the only thing giving him away. His sister tried to keep her eyes on both twins at once, her jaw working as she hunched towards the ground. Unlike El Monstruo, they knew full well that there were adults in the world who would very easily consent to beating _anyone_ to within an inch of their life… even a child.

The driver stayed on the bike, cutting off any escape with an icy smile. It was mirrored by his brother, who stepped toe to toe with the monster without a sound. He looked down at the blade, still held in the meaty fist, and snorted. Monstruo blinked, and it seemed that within the span of a second his arm was grabbed, hand twisted, and his coveted switchblade was in the twin’s hand. He gaped, astounded that an adult would lay hands on a student. He’d never known more than a coddling mother and pushover tías.

“Hey!” He blurted out, taken aback and suddenly feeling a lot more threatened without the weapon in his hands. He forgot his adult blustering, falling back on the tried and true, “That’s mine!” The twin glared down at him, eyes merciless as he flipped the blade up and ran his thumb over the edge. He laughed, showing the uninjured digit to his brother.

“Dull!” he jeered. His brother laughed, shaking his head. “What good is this going to do you, _gordito_? This blade wouldn’t cut paper.” The boy stared, mouth working as the man looked down his nose at him. “A kid your age shouldn’t be playing with knives, anyway. Who’d you get this from, your papá?”

“I ain’t got one!” He snapped, lunging for the knife. The twin rolled his eyes, holding it high over the boy’s head and continuing to study it with the air of a connoisseur. “I stole it off some tourist!” he boasted proudly, more for his peer’s benefit than the adult’s.

“Ooo.” The twin tutted, shaking his head in mock censure. “That won’t do at all, will it?”

“Not at all,” the driver drawled. “Guess you don’t have a choice, _hermano_.”

“No choice,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

“No choice for what?!” He couldn’t jump, couldn’t even _attempt_ to jump, but that didn’t stop him from reaching his flabby arms towards the sky, and his bargaining chip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“If you _stole_ it,” the twin said in another tone entirely, “then it won’t hurt to do this.” He turned on his heel, tossing the knife in a clean arc over the road. It landed with a _plop_ in the backwaters, sinking quickly out sight and barely stirring the algae growing over the stagnation.

“HEY!” El Monstruo roared, watching his chance at cash sink right through his fingers in the waist-deep water. “That was _mine_!”

“No, it wasn’t.” The twin was as calm as ever, crossing his arms as he glared down at the boy. “If you stole it, it was never yours. You can’t be the rightful owner. I couldn’t keep it, either: not with a clear conscience, at least. Now, it belongs to the river.” Monstruo had never been treated this way in his life. The word ‘consequence’ didn’t exist in his limited vocabulary, and he’d certainly never had an adult talk to him as though he were supposed to feel _bad_ for doing what he pleased. His face twisted, voice breaking on a whine as he betrayed how young he really was.

“But I want it _back_!”

“Then go swimming,” the driver suggested, breaking into laughter. “Besides, it’s back luck—”

“Yes, bad luck to bring a knife to a fistfight.”

“F-f-fistfight?” Monstruo began to feel the first tendrils of fear creep into his bravado. The twin didn’t answer, but cracked his bare knuckles in a matter-of-fact sort of way. Outnumbered, weaponless, and outwitted by those who seemed prepared to put him in his place, the boy shrank in on himself like a wilting weed. “B-b-but you can’t fight us! We’re just kids!”

The other two looked at him, unsurprised that such a coward would add _them_ to his own fight. The sister scowled in disgust, the leader annoyed at the clear display of cowardice. He quickly scratched any half-formed ideas of the monster out of his mind: this was a baby, someone who would be easy to bully into submission. There was no room for scaredy-cats amongst his elites.

“Oh, no.” The driver leered at them, leaning on the handlebars. “Kids are in _school_.”

“You want to skip like adults?” The twin grabbed El Monstruo’s collar. He couldn’t yank him up, but the gesture was telling enough. All the blood ran from the kid’s face, his jaw trembling visibly. “Then you can fight like adults.”

“Please, sirs.” The leader spoke up, his voice betraying no trepidation. He had a firm grip on his sister’s forearm, and looked between the two with calm deference. “We were actually headed to school right now. My little sister and I,” he clarified, pushing the monster out of his excuse without a second thought. “I found out that she was skipping, and came to get her before our parents found out.”

“Snitch,” the girl hissed, immediately buying into the game and playing along. She kicked at the packed earth, leaning away as if she would bolt the minute her ‘straight-laced brother’ loosened his hold. She even dug her nails into the meat of his forearm, but the leader didn’t do as much as flinch.

“This one,” the leader added, “found us and was holding us up with his knife. He wanted our money,” he said, playing the role of the straight man. He played it well, and it had gotten him out of scrapes like this many times in the past. No one doubted him, with his honest face and tranquil demeanor, his proper uniform code and good grades. 

“Yeah, the bastard—”

“Quiet.” The girl fell silent, flipping her hair. “So please, may we go on? I’d hate for her to miss afternoon classes as well.” The twin stared down at him, brother to brother. The look on his face was clear: he didn’t believe a word they said. The leader stared back, his face neutral and expression steady. He was a pathological liar; nothing could get him to lose his poker face.

“Go on,” the twin finally said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the main road. “To _school_ ,” he added knowingly.

“Naturally.” The leader hitched up his arm, pulling his sister to his side. He’d pocketed the money some time before, while they were busy with the fat one. He could feel it now, safely pinching against the side of his thigh. “Where else would we go?” He passed them, flashing a triumphant grin at Monstruo as he dragged his sister towards the main road. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mm. And you.” He turned back to the monster, collar still caught in his fist. He flipped his glasses back down onto his face, the lenses catching the light. “This part of town is ours. Think about that, next time you decide to come around here during school hours.”

“Don’t bring anything you wouldn’t want to take a dive for, _little man_.” The driver snickered, wheeling the bike in the slot left by the leader and his sister. The boy blanched further, the sweat on his face having nothing to do with the heat as the driver dismounted and came to stand beside his brother. The two devilish sneers, mirrored eerily on both faces, were sure to inhabit his nightmares for a few days at the least.

“Get out of here.” The twin let him go, and the hefty boy nearly slipped straight to the ground on jellied legs.

“M-m-man, whatever!” He scurried as fast as he could go, blade forgotten as he tried to put as much space between him and the stick bug _thugs_ as possible. He looked fretfully over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed; seeing how they watched him, he jerked in shock and doubled his speed, panting all the while. They waited until they could no longer hear his thudding footfalls, the driver sliding his arm around the other’s shoulders. They glanced at each other, sneers fading into tight smiles and puffed cheeks.

“P…P… _pfft_!” They burst into laughter, leaning on each other and dangerously close to falling over with the force of it. The empty street echoed with it, bouncing between the walls and over the backwaters, which had grown as still and stagnant as before.

“That was great!” Oscar pressed his temple to his brother’s, swaying slightly as he tried to catch his breath. “You were amazing!”

“Was I believable enough?” Felipe asked, beaming as he looked up the road. “I might have gone too far, throwing the kid’s knife in the water like that.”

“Ah, it didn’t hurt anything.” Oscar paused, thinking. “It didn’t seem too hard to take it from him, though. Didn’t he _try_ to stop you?”

“I have a harder time wrestling the remote from Coco,” Felipe replied. “Then again, she _bites_. Maybe I’ve just become a natural at taking things from kids?”  

“Maybe he didn’t think a couple of _stick bugs_ could be that fast.”

“Really. We’re not even that thin.” They each looked down at the other. “Are we?”

“No…. I mean I don’t think so.” They considered this point for a moment, and then looked up in unison. “It’s really hot today, huh?”

“Hotter than yesterday.”

“And the day before.”

“Mm.” Rolling his shoulders, Felipe nodded towards the auto parts store. “Well, let’s hurry it up so we can go _home_. If we don’t beat Ernesto, we’ll never get to stand in front of the fan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: Felipe: this knife stolen... YEET
> 
> I know I said that the ice cream shop would be the next chapter, but I got this idea in my head and liked it so much that it came out first. I love the thought of the twins pretending to be the most threatening things and the only ones scared of them are kids who don’t know better.


	5. The Heladería

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coco gets what she wants. Everyone’s happy… except the twins.  
> A New Challenger Approaches: Maite’s Making Waves!

_“Ple-e-e-e-ease_!”

Imelda looked up from her account book with a sigh. _Don’t bring it in here, don’t bring that in **here** —_it was no use. Despite her best efforts, she and Héctor had never developed the telepathic connection married couples were rumored to have. The back door of the shop opened, the muffled plea cutting through her silence and rising in volume until her fingernails dug into her cheek.

Héctor half-walked, half-limped into the _zapatería_ , hindered by the child hanging her entire body weight from his thin frame. He was dangerously close to being pantsed as he dragged Coco along by his britches, the rise of his bony hips revealing more of themselves with every step. He smiled painstakingly at Imelda, taking no more notice of the girl than if she’d been a gnat buzzing around his head. She frowned back, peering down at their daughter over the rims of her tortoiseshell reading frames.

“ _Coco_ ,” she scolded, seeing the girl take another deep breath in preparation for round—eight? Nine? She’d lost count. “Let go of him,” she ordered. “You’re too old to be hanging off your papá like that.”

Coco didn’t have it in her to disobey such a direct order, but she only followed it to the letter. Letting go of Héctor’s midsection, she slumped down his legs and lay on the floor in a puddle of disappointment. Héctor continued to ignore her, taking the lid off a battered shoebox and placing it on the counter beside the account book. Imelda peered inside, muffling a groan of her own at the sight of six months’ worth of unorganized content. Songwriting fees, various bills, and who knows how many loose receipts from his and Ernesto’s ‘local tours’ filled the box to the brim.

It couldn’t be helped. They had a meeting with the bank tomorrow, and she’d promised earlier in the week to help him sort out his mess so that they could both be prepared. Héctor didn’t try to pretend that he was better at finances than his wife, and he did try to help despite his inaptitude. That effort, plus the dozens of grateful kisses he’d bestow upon her later, was enough to give her the courage to face such a task head-on.

And besides… at least he’d _saved_ them this time.

“I’m almost through,” she assured him, managing a grimace at the box. “Then we can start on… on that.”

“Take your time,” he replied, stepping over Coco to get Felipe’s stool from the workbench and carry it over to the counter. He hiked up his jeans before sitting beside her, muffling a yawn behind his hand. They were silent a moment, ruminating, and then Imelda rolled her eyes with a huff.

“Coco, get off the floor. ¡ _Pórtate bien_!”

“Mamá.” Coco used the counter to pull herself onto her feet, a serious expression on her face. She slapped a palm on the counter, looking shockingly like a miniature of her mother as she looked up at her parents through her eyelashes. “ _Everyone_ else has already been. If I don’t go this weekend, I’m going to be the laughingstock of the entire school.” Imelda barely managed to stop the smile threatening to twitch at the corners of her mouth. _Such teenage theatrics! I thought they might hold off until she was sixteen, at least._ She rested her chin on her fist, studying the still-little girl across the counter.

“Everyone,” she repeated wryly. “And just who, may I ask, is everyone?”

“The whole school!”

“Name them, please.” Coco groaned, shifting impatiently, but obediently began to count names off on her fingers.

“Gabriella and Julio and Ines and… Olivero, uh… Leticia… uhm….” She trailed off, biting her lip as she thought.

“Uh-huh.” Imelda glanced at Héctor, and they shared a sly grin. “Big world.” Coco looked between them, eyes full of disbelief, and then her forehead fell to the counter with a wooden _thunk_.

“Ugh!” She burrowed her head in her arms, and this time Imelda couldn’t stop the smirk from forming. Héctor bit his lower lip, trying hard not to laugh. “You _want_ me to be some weird outcast.”

“Hey, don’t feel bad.” Héctor reached out, running his hand over the top of her head. He tapped twice on the clean part between her braids, giving her nose a little tweak when she looked up at him hopefully. “The Riveras have always been outcasts; you’re just carrying on the family tradition.”

“Héctor,” Imelda scoffed, but she was already chuckling. He winked, ducking when she swatted at his shoulder affectionately. She tried to muffle her laughter in her sleeve, a small part of her feeling sorry for taking it so lightly when it was clearly a grave matter—at least to Coco. Her round cheeks burrowed out of sight once more, a painful-sounding moan muffled by the cage of her arms.

“Hey, it’s true! There’s no sense denying it.” Héctor matched her posture, fingers laced neatly under his chin as his back bent like a willow branch. “I mean, just look at your tíos.”

“Look at what?” As if on cue Oscar and Felipe came in through the front, scattering road dust and sunlight in their wake. Imelda tutted at their dirt-caked boots, but in the back of her mind there wasn’t much she could complain about. At least they’d graduated to actual motorcycle leathers instead of dirtying up their everyday clothes, and they cleaned them… somehow; she didn’t know and didn’t really _want_ to know, so long as it meant she wasn’t tasked with keeping them clean.

“At what?” Felipe repeated, looking between his sister and brother-in-law. “What about us?” Coco peeked up from her arms, glancing them over with a trembling pout. Héctor tilted his head, making a face at her when she looked back at him for confirmation.

“A real pair of weirdos, no?” The twins flushed angrily, a pale pink highlighting their thin cheeks as they glared over Coco’s head.

“Ha-ha.” Oscar made a sound of disgust, rolling his eyes.

“ _S_ _í_ , _muy gracioso_.” Turning his back on his brother-in-law, Felipe fished in the pocket of his trousers. “Here.” His fist emerged with a wad of crumpled bills, forking them over to Imelda’s waiting hand without ceremony. “From the academy.” She smoothed the bills on the counter, counting them briskly before accepting with a nod.

“Prompt payment,” she murmured to herself, handing the stack of bills to Héctor. He reached between his knees, digging blindly beneath the counter for the moneybox. “I’ll mark them as a possible repeat customer.”

“Polite, too. They— _ah_!” Felipe had unthinkingly leaned on the counter, holding his weight on his palms; he jerked one hand back, waving it with a hiss.

“What? What’s wrong?” Oscar winced in sympathy as his brother surveyed the damage, his other hand holding back his fingers as he turned it in the light.

“Nothing,” he assured her. “I burned my hand earlier and forgot about it, that’s all.” Imelda held out her hand and he let her take his wrist, biting his lip as she carefully ran the pad of her finger over the angry red mark.

“How did that happen?”

“It was my fault,” Oscar offered. “I dropped one of the boxes when we were getting ready to go inside, and when Felipe bent to pick it up he put his hand on the exhaust without thinking.”

“I stuck it in the fountain the moment it happened,” Felipe added. “The one in front of the school? That took most of the sting off.”

“The exhaust?” Imelda repeated, shaking her head as she let him take his hand back. “You’re lucky you didn’t hurt it worse.”

“It was only on there for a minute—”

“A second, really—”

“Barely long enough to feel anything—”

“Just a little burn, it’ll heal—”

“I wanna see.” Her plight temporarily on the backburner now that there was something interesting, Coco eyeballed the hand with a sense of wonder. Felipe held out his palm and she leaned onto her tiptoes to see better, treating it with the same reverence playground children treated promising scars. Her tongue worked in her cheek. “I thought biker guys wore gloves,” she pointed out after a moment’s thought.

“Do you see us with gloves?” Oscar crept up behind her, thumping the back of her head before she could duck out of the way. She turned on him with a scowl, only to be jostled as Felipe’s knee poked into her back. They grinned down at her, twin bullies that only sneered when she faced them with both fists raised.

“Besides,” Felipe added, drawing his hand behind his back; she’d been learning some dirty moves from her _other_ tío, and it wouldn’t be above the clever girl to add some extra heat to the burn if she could get a good shot in. “Be more specific.” He winked at Oscar. “Boxing gloves?”

“Evening gloves?”

“Kid gloves?”

“Winter gloves?”

“Stop teasing her, you two.” Imelda frowned at them as they ganged up on the poor girl, throwing her head in a whirl as they seamlessly picked up where the other left off. Teasing their niece was one of their favorite pastimes, almost as enjoyable as teasing their sister. It was sometimes cruel, since _they_ were big and _she_ was little, too little to do much when they held her down and tickled her until she squealed—for help only, never mercy. That didn’t stop the obstinate child from trying to fight back, though.

“ _Leather_ gloves!” she screeched, bouncing off Oscar. She looked more like a kitten pitted against a greyhound, spitting and scratching as she tried to pummel him properly though the thick leather pants. Imelda let out a breath between her teeth, rubbing her temples as she bent over her books. There was a reason they were sometimes banned from the shop; it was hard to get any work done when they were all in the same room. It was like trying to balance accounts while attending the loudest three-ring circus in Mexico.

“¡ _Basta_!” The three of them stopped, Coco in mid-swing while the twins crouched over her like a pair of demons. Héctor leaned away, eyes widening at the sharp snap of ice in her voice. “Coco, why don’t you go find somewhere else to be?”

“Like the _heladar_ _í_ _a_?” she offered, not missing a beat.

“Like your bedroom,” Imelda retorted, feeling more like a strict librarian rather than a mother as she adjusted her glasses on her nose. “You’re more than old enough to know when your papá and I are busy. We have an important meeting tomorrow; what we _don’t_ have is time to drop everything and take you across town just because you want ice cream. The answer is no.”

“But— _s_ _í_ , Mamá.” Recognizing defeat, Coco hung her head. Héctor winced, pouting as he looked at his daughter. He turned to Imelda, his patented puppy-dog eyes working little charm as she shook her head firmly, mouthing ‘no’. She knew he wouldn’t usurp her parental judgement, but it was still irksome that he felt more pity for his _preciosa_ than loyalty to her.

“Y-you know, maybe if you ask _really_ nicely your tíos will take you!” Héctor offered, nudging Imelda with raised eyebrows. She considered the notion; it would mean a quieter house, and easier workspace. Coco wouldn’t be sulking the rest of the evening, and with any luck her sugar rush would be lost on the walk home, since she was forbidden to ride on the twins’ bike.

“Uh, _no_?” Oscar’s brow wrinkled. “We won’t?”

“It’s two o’ clock,” Felipe added over Oscar’s shoulder, as if that explained everything. When met with blank stares, he sighed. “ _Mexicánicos_?”

“That’s the only reason we’re home on Fridays?”

“Did you think we’d miss—”

“—a single episode?”

“Oh, come on!” Héctor clasped his hands. “We’re begging you.”

“No!”

“We always watch it on Fridays,” Oscar insisted stubbornly. “We’re not missing it.”

“You can’t watch it anyway,” Coco informed him crisply, tugging on his belt strap. “Tío Nesto’s here. He’s got some movie-not-for-little-girls on.”

“He can leave.”

“And who’s gonna make him?” she giggled. “He’ll have you on the ground like Canelo.” She changed her stance, boxing his leg with moves she’d seen watching the fights: one of the few ‘bonding’ moments she shared with Ernesto. Imelda clicked her tongue, shaking her head when Coco looked up. She put her hands behind her back, chewing the inside of her cheek with a frown.

“She’s got a point,” Héctor agreed. “Even with the two of you….”

“Thanks for the support,” Felipe drawled, wiping his lenses on the edge of Imelda’s blouse as they faded back from tinted sunglasses to their inside state. “We’re so happy you believe in us, Héctor.”

“I place my bets where the winner is,” he replied, winking at his daughter and erasing her frown. “No offense.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey.” The door to the back of the shop opened again. Imelda and Héctor turned, Coco bouncing on the balls of her feet to see over the counter as Ernesto poked his head through the gap.

“You’re out of _Gansitos_ ,” he informed Imelda curtly, glaring as though the lack of snack foods was a personal affront. Oscar shared a look with his brother, the two of them scowling as they mentally tallied who, between the lot of them, had eaten the most. He inclined his head, looking over his dimmed glasses at Felipe.

 _Ernesto?_ Felipe tilted his head, jerking his chin at the kid.

 _Coco_ , he argued. Oscar shrugged one shoulder.

“Did you write them on the list?” Imelda replied coolly, barely flinching as the door slammed open. He strode into the shop, an unopened beer in his hand. The twins blanched, recognizing it as one of theirs. But Coco and her papá were right; they couldn’t confront him without being at least roughened up, if Ernesto was in the mood to accept their fight. “Or better yet,” she added, ignoring Héctor’s warning sound, “why don’t _you_ go and buy them? Since this is basically your house.”

“Excuse me?”

“That apartment is just a glorified dog kennel at this point,” she continued, her pen tapping a staccato against the account book.

“What do you know? I—hold still—” He balanced the beer on Coco’s head, who immediately froze. He placed both hands on the counter, looming over Imelda. “As a matter of fact, I _did_ write it on your stupid list. I just thought I’d let you know.”

“You just thought you’d complain,” Imelda argued, reaching over and plucking the can from her daughter. She sat it on the counter, pursing her lips at the look of reverent awe she held for the oblivious meathead. Coco would have stood there and been Ernesto’s personal side table all afternoon, if he would have let her. She had no earthly idea what her daughter saw in him, to be so enamored with the man. Her only solace was that Coco constantly annoyed the living hell out of him whenever he came, to the point that even Héctor was surprised Ernesto never seemed in a hurry to leave.

God help them all if Coco started picking up _his_ habits.

“Tío Nesto.” Quicker than a flash she latched onto his waist, head resting sweetly on his stomach as she batted her long eyelashes. He made his Coco-face, a mixture of slight revulsion and annoyance that would—should—have sent any other kid packing. “How much do you love me?”

“Not at all,” he replied, in deceivingly dulcet tones. He poked her forehead with his index finger, prying her off with pressure alone. She leaned back, her spine pushed to its limits as her hands clung to his shirt with the strength of a leech. “Now go away.”

“But I want to ask you something!”

“Hmm… no.” He cracked open the beer, downing half in one gulp. Her shoulders slumped.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!”

“You’re right.” He waited until she opened her mouth before speaking again. “Nope.”

“I didn’t _say_ anything yet.”

“And yet: I am unchanged.” He ruffled the top of her head, pulling frizz from her braids.   

“But you—”

“No way.”

“But I—”

“ _No gracias_.”

“Papá!” Héctor shrugged helplessly. “Ugh! You’re all no fun!”

“Aw, come on Ernesto.” Héctor gave his most charming smile. “I’d owe you one.”

“You owe me enough already to pay rent until I’m dead, Héctor.”

“Owe?” Coco started at her papá, gears spinning in her head before gasping. “Wait!” She sprinted through the door, ignoring Imelda’s call of “Don’t run in the house!” A moment later she burst into the shop again, a folded piece of notebook paper in her hand. She brandished it at Oscar the best she could, standing on her tiptoes and holding it up at arm’s length with a stubborn grunt.

“What?”

“You _owe_ me!” She proclaimed, stretching her body to its limits. “See? Right here: _le debemos un favor a Coco_! You even signed it at the bottom.” Oscar leaned down, Felipe adjusting his glasses as they read the scrawl—Oscar’s own handwriting, judging by the severe left tilt of the letters—and their own hurried signatures at the bottom. “When I gave you all the money in my piggy bank last month.”

“Yeah, but—” Coco handed the paper to Imelda without a word, leaving it up to her to enforce the law. Imelda looked over the note, turning to the back and then arching a brow at her brothers.

“You wrote this,” she declared, as if perusing some ancient historical artifact. They deflated, backed into a corner.

“Yes.”

“And there’s no expiration date.” Imelda snorted under her breath, handing it over to Felipe. This was just like them, taking a child’s hard-earned allowance and offering her some gimmick in return, only for karma to slap them in the face for it later. Any thinking adult would have put some sort of stipulation on their I.O.U.

“I’m cashing in my favor,” Coco announced, crossing her arms. “I want you to take me to get ice cream. _Now_.” Felipe opened his mouth to argue, and then sighed.

“I suppose we have to buy you the ice cream, too?” he asked, wilting further under her triumphant smirk.

“Duh.”

“Can we at least take the van?” Oscar begged.

“No.” Her smile fell as she considered the thought. The last thing she needed was them totaling the family car. Even _she_ had her limits.

“Can we take the bike?”

“ _No_.” This time Héctor joined her, adamant in their refusal. That was one of the ground rules they’d come up with years ago, when Imelda had finally been talked into letting them keep their motorbike. Coco was not ever, ever, _ever_ allowed to ride. It was a rare treat for her to be allowed to sit on it, since that was just a gateway for her to wheedle an unsolicited ride out of her lenient tíos.

“We have to walk!?” Oscar groaned. “It’s—”

“—a scorcher out there!”

“You’ll be all the more grateful for your ice cream,” Imelda replied sweetly.

“Come on!” Coco grabbed their hands, nearly horizontal as she leaned in the direction of the door. “Hurry it up, slowpokes!”

“Fine, fine!”

“Stop pulling, Coco!” Felipe frowned. “I knew we should have just paid her back.”

“Shut up.”

“Have fun!” Héctor called, waving after them.

“Don’t stay out too late,” Imelda added, laughing as she watched Coco exert all her strength yanking the two unwilling _tortugas_ out the front door of the shop and into the heat of full spring. “Well, that’s what they get,” she told Héctor.

“Better them than me,” Ernesto agreed, sipping the remainder of his beer.

“You.” Imelda slid the shoebox towards the two of them with her pen. “If you’re not going to go with them, the least _you_ can do is help Héctor sort out this mess. Half of it is yours, after all.”

“Ehhh….” Whatever excuse he was about to make fell under the force of her glare. He rolled his eyes, grabbing a fistful of gas station receipts from the top of the box with a moody huff.

“Never say I don’t do anything for you, Héctor,” he muttered, ignoring his friend’s grateful smile as he squinted at the faded dates.

“Of course, _amigo_. Never.”

* * *

Coco skipped through the front door of the _heladar_ _í_ _a_ , both braids bouncing and happy as a lark. A little bell on the door tinkled merrily, matching her mood as her shoes tapped lightly on the new tile inside the shop. It was always a good day when she got things her way, an even better one when she was actually able to boss around someone older than she was.

She stopped in the doorway, eyes widening in awe as she tried to drink everything in at once. The outside of the corner shop looked just like it’s neighbors, painted plaster dulled with decades of weather. Most of the buildings on the main strip—except for the white gleam of the hospital, bus station, and a few other modern buildings—had been in Santa Cecelia since before Abuelita Isa’s time. They were still standing, but their age definitely showed and in many cases the insides were dim and cramped.

The _heladar_ _í_ _a_ wasn’t like that at all.

The twins followed her slowly, nudging her through the door and sighing in relief at the first burst of cool air from inside. The leathers protected them from crashes and burns—they were indispensable when riding—but walking in them under the merciless sun was another matter entirely. They looked around as well, pushing an awestruck Coco towards the unmanned counter.

The shop had once been an old _floristería_ ; the florist had died long ago, when they were younger than Coco. It had sat empty for years, growing more and more dilapidated as time passed and no one thought to buy it. Neither of them had set foot inside—there’d never been any need—but from first glance it was clear that the new owner had put in quite a bit of work. This wasn’t a small-town ice cream parlor.

This… came from the city.

The walls were a pale seafoam blue, the tile beneath their feet speckled off-white. In fact, nearly _everything_ was white or blue, offset by the long steel countertop that reached nearly from door to door. It was segmented in two by the display case of ice cream, impeccably clean glass shining under the florescent lights. Strings of paper flowers were hung from the ceiling, catching the light and making oddly beautiful shapes as they twirled slowly in the breeze from the air conditioner. An old florist’s fridge stood in the corner, painted white and filled not with flowers, but all manner of drinks.

Oscar scooped Coco up easily, depositing her on one of the stools in front of the counter before taking one himself. It was only after they sat that both boys winced, hoping the dirt from their pants wouldn’t stain the patent white leather of the stools. Coco swung her legs excitedly, craning her neck to look at everything at once.

“¡ _Mira_!” she squeaked, pointing to a row of tall cabinets. The cabinets were white, the spaces between the upper and lower doors painted with little scalloped seafoam waves. On top, in the gap between the high ceiling and the tops of the cabinets, were seagulls. All manner of seagulls, in nearly every shape and size. Porcelain, wooden, glass, metal. Tiny, large, fat, thin, in flight, sitting on a nest… even one that looked as though it had been carved from a block of soap, delicate feathers etched onto its pale wings.

They were gathered around the largest one, a seagull _alebrije_ that took a clear place of honor in the very middle. It was all colors of the ocean, from the nearly black-blue of the deep ocean to the turquoise-green of dancing waves, each feather decorated with oranges, yellows, whites and reds of the most vibrant coral reef.

“Isn’t it the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen?” Coco gushed, her eyes locked on the seagull’s green-rimmed glass eyes. “I want it.”

“Well, that’s too bad. It’s clearly not for sale.” Oscar shifted uneasily on the stool. “Who owns this place, anyway?” he asked Felipe.

“Not sure. Arturo told us it had been bought out, remember?”

“That was months ago.”

“Enough time to refurbish it,” Felipe answered sensibly. “I can’t think of anyone who loves the ocean this much, though.”

“Me either.”

“Ines said her mamá said the owner is from up north,” Coco told them, resting her elbows on the counter as she looked through the archway and into the back. Ines was her best friend since kindergarten; her mother owned the grocery store—and the championship title for Santa Cecelia’s Nosiest Gossip.

“The only ones from up north I know are the Martín’s.”

“But they’re all carpenters.”

“I know _that_.”

“No.” Coco shook her head, braids flying. “She’s not from around here. She came on the bus, Ines said. Last week.” Both twins froze.  

“Not from around here?”

“ _She_?” They shared a nervous grimace. “Coco, I’m not sure—”

“—you know, maybe we should—”

“—there’s ice cream at the store, we could still—”

“No.” Coco glowered at them. “Y _ou owe me a favor._ ” She immediately brightened. “Do you want something to drink? Can I have a soda?” she asked, pointing at the fridge.

“Go ahead.” Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Ay, someone new.”

“Some _girl_ that’s new,” Felipe added, tugging nervously at his belt. It was well-known that neither one of them were very good with making small talk, especially to strangers and even more so to strange women. They became stammering messes around anyone younger than a grandmother and older than a high schooler, to the point that if they discounted Imelda there was a good handful—as in, _maybe_ five—of women they could stand talking to.

It helped that Santa Cecelia didn’t get many newcomers. The bus station, and the tiny restaurant next to it, was sufficient enough to hold tourists waiting for the next departure for the southern states. The families that lived there had been living there since the formation of the town itself. Anyone new was an oddity, something rare and usually talked about until the next big thing came along. This meant that as long as they stayed inside the town’s borders, they were safe.

For the most part.

“Oops! Sorry, hang on!” Before either of them could speak, there was a flurry of movement from the back. “I didn’t hear the bell ring, but I’ll be right there!” A young voice, with a Norteño dialect they vaguely recognized. _Baja Californian_? They shared another glance, this time of mingled fear and confusion. What was some Mexicali woman doing in Santa Cecelia? How did she even get here?

Coco came back with a peach soda, offering them both a drink and shaking her head when neither one even acknowledged her. She was used to her tíos being in their own little world most of the time, and it didn’t really bother her if they forgot she was around. She’d never known any different, and she was independent enough to do things on her own without always relying on an adult to be watching.

“Hi! Sorry,” they were greeted again, and all three turned to see the tiny woman as she sailed through the doorway to take her place behind the counter. 

“Hi!” Coco said back, beaming brightly as she clutched her soda in both hands. The twins were silent, too alarmed to do anything more than stare. Their worst fears were confirmed. She was new, she was a woman—a young woman, their age if not a little younger. But the worst of all, the part they couldn’t look past no matter how many manners had been beaten into their skulls by a shoe: she was pretty.

To be fair, none of them knew exactly what to make of her. Santa Cecelia had a modern style when it came to clothing, but even they would have never thought to dress like _that_. In fact the woman’s style took a step back in time rather than forwards; she looked as though she’d just came to them from an old Coca-Cola ad, hand painted on the side of some building.

Her dress fit the theme of her restaurant. It was a navy sailor’s dress, the kind with white piping around the sleeves and a rounded collar. It fell below her knees, cut in the middle with a white ribbon and two rows of pretty gold buttons down the front of the blouse. The red necktie was not around her neck but instead on her head, tied in an offset knot that seemed fashionable enough, holding back dark pin curls; brushed flat from the top, they bounced around her ears and barely cleared her round chin. 

Only her makeup seemed modern, red lips and winged eyeliner along with a translucent powder that did little to hide the freckles sprinkled on her nose. She smiled with white, even teeth, made whiter by the shock of red and without a single spot of lipstick marring their surface. Coco smiled at her with the childlike wonder of a celebrity, or an otherworldly fairy being. It was a rare day when she came across something so starkly different from her reality of blue jeans and business casual.  

On the other hand, just looking at her made the twins feel every speck of dirt on their clothes. The streak of stubble on Oscar’s chin, missed in his hurried morning shave, burned like fire. Felipe could point out every mussed hair on his head, his burnt palm tingling painfully. They felt like drowning, anxiety at the mere thought of speaking choking them into agonizing silence.

Thankfully for them, Coco didn’t have that problem.

“I’m Coco,” she began, picking up her chatter as easily as her papá talked up potential customers. “ _Actually_ it’s Socorro, but everyone calls me Coco because my parents do. Coco Rivera. And I’m here for ice cream, but this peach soda is really good too? I’ve never had it before, but I like it a lot. I think it’s my new favorite soda, but I also like orange and grape but _not_ grapefruit, which you think would taste good but it actually tastes really, really gross. Anyway, all my friends have been here and says this is the best place to get ice cream, even better than the stuff they have in the city, which I’ve never had but Julio said he and his sister have, only this is better.” 

“Coco, huh?” While Coco talked, the woman had given her undivided attention, her dark eyes locked on Coco’s bright ones. “I like that name, Coco. It’s rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it? _Co_ - _co_. Well, Ms. Co-co, my name is Maite.” Her tongue flicked on the ‘te’ to give it a sharp, creased sound. “Maite Ramos Travieso, and I am pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand and Coco took it, a little shocked at being treated like an adult herself. “I see you’ve been escorted by two gentlemen today.”  

“They’re my tíos—” Coco paused, looking to see who was sitting where before pointing them out. “Oscar and Felipe. They’re twins,” she explained needlessly. Maite followed her finger.

“Oscar and Felipe,” she repeated slowly; her eyes paused first on one face, then the other, as if the two weren’t the same at all.

“ _M-m-mucho g-gusto_ ,” Oscar managed to say, while Felipe jerked his head in what was supposed to be a cordial nod. 

“They’re bikers!” Coco said blithely, taking another drink of her soda. “That’s why they’re dressed like that.”

“You have a bike?” Maite perked up. “Did you bring it?”

“No. I’m not allowed on it,” Coco answered for them. “My mamá doesn’t want me to ride.”

“What kind?” Oscar and Felipe looked at each other, a small argument passing between them that ended up with Felipe as the loser.

“H-H-Honda CB750” he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The 2007 model or the 750SC?” They both started, staring at her in amazement.

“2003 Nighthawk,” Oscar blurted, shocked enough that he got the full sentence out without stuttering once. “Black.”

“The first superbike.” Maite pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Transverse four-cylinder, 218 kg base model.”

“Not anymore.” Felipe blushed when she looked directly at him, his gaze falling to the counter. “W-w-we changed some things.”

“Customized?”

“It’s g-got an entirely new brake system,” Oscar explained, drawing patterns on the counter as he studied the bike in his head. “We’ve experimented with our own turbocharger, too.”

“The speed’s supposed to reach 125, but we’ve t-topped it at 180.” Felipe ducked further. “That’s without hard testing, though.”

“W-we hope to hit 200 by next year, maybe…”  

“My tíos are super smart! They know everything about mechanical junk!” Coco chirped proudly. “Do you have a motorbike too?”

“No, but when I was your age my papá used to take me to the races. He taught me all about motors and showed me how to check for people cheating the system, how to place a bet without getting targeted by the—” she stopped herself, seeing how closely Coco was paying attention, and cleared her throat. “But never mind! I haven’t done any of that stuff in a long time. Besides, you’re not here to talk _motores_ : you’re here for ice cream. You said so yourself.”

“Well—” Coco faltered, looking between her and her uncles.

“Let me see.” Maite stood in front of Coco, bending down until they were eye-to-eye. “Ms. Coco, can you believe I’ve got a gift?”

“What kind of gift?”

“I know ice cream, and I know people. I can tell you _exactly_ what kind of ice cream you want, even before you know it yourself. That’s how I made money, long before I decided to open my own shop.”

“You can?!” Her eyes widened. “Do me, please do me!”

“Sit still, and I will.” Coco froze, trembling on the seat as she tried to be as still as possible. Maite watched her for another minute before nodding to herself and walking briskly to the freezer.

“What kind—”

“Ah!” She held up a finger before putting it to her lips. Coco fell silent, spellbound. Maite turned between the cabinets and the fridge, grabbing jars and utensils faster than the three on the other side of the counter could keep up. She came back with a handmade waffle cone, presenting it with a flourish.

“For you, Ms. Coco: three scoops of chocolate in a cone—waffle, not sugar—sprinkled with cinnamon and semisweet coco-a. Sweet, but with a little bitterness and lots of warmth.” Coco took the cone reverently in both hands, looking from it to the woman in amazement.

“Chocolate’s my favorite flavor,” she admitted in a tiny voice. “How did you know?”

“I know ice cream, and I know people,” she repeated. “Go on, try it. I haven’t been wrong yet.” Coco took an experimental lick… and another, and another before chomping down on a full bite of cone and chocolate.

“It’s super delicious!” she mumbled, one hand already on her temple in anticipation of brain freeze. Maite bounced in a quick curtsy, accepting the praise with grace before turning to the twins.

“And I’ll do you next?” she offered. Her eyes swept over them, scrutinizing them the same way she’d done their niece. Oscar opened his mouth, but she held up another finger and he went still. “One bowl, two spoons. Right?” At a loss, they both nodded.

After she turned, Felipe put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, rewarded with a puzzled shake of the head. They were used to reading each other’s minds. For a moment, just one _little_ moment, it felt as if she had read theirs. Neither of them recalled that ever happening before; even Imelda, who knew them better than anyone else in the world, could only read the emotions on their faces.

“Here we go.” Maite placed a large bowl before them. Coco leaned forward to see, her mouth covered in chocolate. “Two scoops of vanilla topped with chiles, cinnamon, apricot, and spiced mango sauce. That sauce is my pride; my personal recipe, I might add.” She winked, ignoring how red they were at being singled out; she slid two spoons across the counter. “Dig in, and let me know what you think.”

“ _G-gracias_.” They each took a side, trying to get as many toppings as possible on the spoon before taking a bite. Coco held her breath, absently licking melted ice cream off her thumb. They each chewed, swallowed, paused. Oscar looked at Felipe, who seemed to share his feelings. They’d thought it quaint that Coco was amazed at her cone, but… vanilla, complimented by spicy, savory, warm sauce and cinnamon that was almost sweet by comparison, and then an added kick from the tang of the apricots? It was… it was….

“Perfect.” They each went for a second bite, splitting it evenly down the middle.

“Of course.” Maite seemed modestly pleased, even with her confident words. “I’ve never considered apricots and mango together. That’s a first, but you could say it’s an… _experiment._ The sauce adds the burst of flavor, but underneath there’s the calm vanilla to balance the eccentricity of the rest. A good, solid flavor. I like it,” she announced, as though she’d been the one to taste-test it.

“So do we.” They offered Coco a bite, but one lick of the mango sauce and her nose crinkled in distaste.

“Too sour!” she shivered on the stool, downing more of her soda to wash the taste away before attacking her cone. Maite pulled a napkin out of thin air, passing it to her with a smile before leaning against the counter and watching them comfortably.

“So, Ms. Co-co, what do you do when you’re not searching for ice cream?”

“I go to school, or help Mamá and my tíos in the shop.”

“You have a shop?” she asked the twins. Oscar cleared his throat twice before he could answer.

“O-Our older sister does.”

“We’re shoemakers!” Coco talked around bites of her treat, licking the chocolate as it raced down the cone towards the counter. “The whole family is! Well, sort of—Papá doesn’t make shoes, but he helps Mamá in the shop. And Tío Nesto doesn’t make shoes, but he’s a family friend and not really my tío but I get to call him Tío because I like him. Not like Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe, who do make shoes and help with the deliveries. I’m still too small to help much but I pick up the leather and sort shoelaces, and I can even pack up deliveries before they go out as long as I let Mamá look them over. I’m going to make deliveries when I turn thirteen and I can shine shoes really, really well.”

“I see!” Maite smiled. “So you’re well on your way then, huh?”

“Yep!” Coco straightened on the stool, adopting her mother’s stance. “Riveras are shoemakers, through and through.”

“Wait… Rivera shoes!” Maite clapped her hands. “I’ve heard of you!”

“You have?”

“I’m sure of it. One of my old employers had a pair of boots that he said came from… uh… Doña Imelda, I think her name was? He told me, but this was about five years ago. That’s why I remember, because those shoes still looked brand new and he’d had them for about three years by that point.”

“That’s my mamá!” Coco said proudly, chest puffing. “Mamá makes the best shoes in all of Mexico, _and_ her face is the company.”

“She’s the face of the company,” Felipe corrected softly. 

“He said those were the best boots he’s ever owned. He told anyone who asked about them and gave them your website.” She paused. “I really hate talking work while you’re off the clock, but maybe you can help me. But if you want I can just bring them by another day, I don’t want to bother you especially since we’ve only just met—”

“You h-have a shoe p-problem?” Oscar wiped his mouth.

“W-what happened?”

“Well, you see—I’ve got these high heels that I swear I’ve worn from San Diego to Guatemala and back. I mean, they’re my _favorite_ shoes. But today I stepped down off the ladder and the heel snapped like _that_.” She snapped her fingers with a scowl. “Would you mind taking a look at them? I really don’t to throw them away, especially if I can have them fixed. I was going to wait until I went back north, but if there’s a shoe shop here in town….”

“W-we don’t mind.”

“D-do you have them here?” Felipe pushed the bowl to the side, their spoons sticking up in the half-eaten ice cream. “O-one look and we can tell you if they’re fixable.”

“Sure! You don’t mind?” They shook their heads. “Ay, you’re lifesavers! Hang on just a sec, I stuck them by the back door.” Maite all but ran to fetch them. As soon as she vanished into the back, the twins breathed a sigh of relief. They’d managed to get through an entire conversation with minimal panic: a win by their books.  

“Are you okay?” Coco noticed their clear discomfort for the first time, her head tilting to the side like a puppy’s. “You don’t have to be shy; it’s just Maite,” she said, patting Oscar’s knee. She spoke as though she’d known the woman all her life, and not just half an hour. How simple life would be if they had Coco’s easygoing manner, and could talk to anyone at any time!  

“Here, it’s this one.” Maite came back with a faded high heel in one hand, the broken heel in the other. Felipe took the shoe and Oscar the heel, their heads coming together as they studied the break.  

“The leather’s faded,” Coco pointed out, using her own small arsenal of shoe knowledge. Maite nodded.

“They’re old shoes. They used to belong to my mamá, before she passed. I took them when I left home.” She looked on anxiously. “Can you fix it?”

“Sure.” Just like with the motorbike, once they had something to focus on it was easier to talk. “It just needs some new glue, maybe even some more nails.” Oscar said, tracing the relatively clean edge of the broken heel. Felipe frowned, turning the shoe over in his hands to peer inside.

“But… don’t these pinch your feet?” he asked with real concern.

“Of course they do!” Maite replied with a laugh. “All heels hurt. It’s just a thing.” There was a tense silence as the trio stared at her. Coco sighed in pity, tongue digging for the last hints of chocolate inside the cone. Oscar shook his head, sympathetic and yet lamenting this poor woman’s lack of knowledge. But it was Felipe who firmly placed the shoe back on the counter, a tight frown on his face.

“No, they don’t.” He gathered his courage before meeting her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Not if they’re made the right way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look here.” He pointed carefully to the indentions on the inside, an outline of her toes in the lining of the shoe. “When wearing heels, most women lean back to compensate for the balance. Their ankles brace them so that they can walk without having to stick their necks forwards.”

“Heels shorten the arch,” Oscar explained, tilting his hand to show the difference. “The higher you go, the shorter it is. Too high, and you’ll put a strain on your ankles.”

“Most women lean,” Felipe repeated. “But you’re not. Look at how your toes have dug into the lining here. They’re trying to spread out when you put your weight on them, but there’s nowhere for them to go. You’re still putting all your pressure on the balls of your feet. You get blisters when you wear them for a long time, don’t you?”

“Well… _s_ _í_ , of course.” Maite looked from Felipe to the shoe, brow furrowed. “On the—”

“On the sides, here.” He glanced up for confirmation. “These shoes are too little in the toe and too wide everywhere else. They don’t support your arch, so you keep putting pressure down when you walk to make up the difference. That’s what put the strain on the heel in the first place, most likely.”

“You can tell all that by looking at the shoes themselves?” Maite asked, clearly impressed. “Without seeing my feet at all?” Felipe held up the shoe, showing her the footprint inside.

“You’ve left your mark,” he explained.

“It’s just forensics,” Oscar added. “It’s like being able to tell what kind of bullet made a hole in a wall by the pattern it leaves behind.”

“Or tire tracks at the scene of a crime.”

“Or blood splatter.”

“Or—”

“Woah, before we have a murder on our hands!” Maite chuckled. The sound surprisingly put them at ease, and the two relaxed for the first time since she’d walked in. “You guys know shoes like I know ice cream, I see.”

“We’ve been doing it since we were sixteen.”

“Nearly ten years, almost.”

“About eight.”

“Okay, so… what do I do?” Maite took the shoe back, looking down at it uncertainty as she fit the broken edges of the heel together. “How do I fix it?”

“We can fix the _heel_ ,” Oscar clarified. “But Felipe’s right. They’re going to hurt your feet, no matter what. They’re not a good fit.”

“You need new shoes,” Coco agreed, stuffing the last bit of cone into her mouth.

“Look here,” Maite argued. “I’ve never found a pair of shoes that fit as well as these, and you’re saying they don’t fit well at all?”

“They _don’t_ ,” Felipe protested.

“What am I supposed to do? Try every shoe in Mexico until I find the ones that fit? I’m not Cinderella here.”

“Of course not. You’ll never get a good fit that way.” Oscar made a face. “Manufactured shoes are… not one size fits all, I’m afraid.”

“Listen.” Felipe slid the bowl between him and Oscar again. “Come by the shop. We’ll fix the heel, since they mean something to you. But I will _make_ you new shoes, ones that’ll fit far better than those.” He clicked his tongue adamantly. “They’ll be the best heels you ever owned. No blisters, no breaking. You’ll forget that you’re even wearing them.”

“ _Really_?” Maite put her hands on her hips. “You’re making a wager on that?”

“A single blister and they’re free. I promise. In fact, I’ll—” He paused, seeing Oscar and Coco staring wide-eyed at him. He slowly turned beet red, his words catching up to him. “I-I-I-I mean _we’ll_ make you new ones—my sister—the family—” he stammered, trying to make up for his mistake. Oscar smirked, picking up his spoon without a word. Coco grinned, tugging on the ends of her braids and muffling her giggles. “ _We_ ,” he insisted quietly, his face on fire.

“I’m going to take you up on that, Felipe.” Coco stopped laughing.

“You can tell them apart?!” She looked between them, then back to Maite. Most people, even after being told who was who, forgot and called one twin the other by mistake. Maite blinked at her, and then turned back to the two with a smile.

“Of course!” she replied, treating it as some grand in-joke between Coco and herself. “They’re really not entirely alike at all, are they?” She winked again.

Oscar dropped his spoon.

* * *

“Felipe has a girlfriend! Felipe has a girlfriend!” Coco danced into the kitchen, grabbing her mother in a hug at the stove. “Felipe has a girlfriend,” she said again, as if Imelda couldn’t hear it from the moment she came in the front door.

“Oh he does?” she replied calmly, stirring the vegetables frying in the skillet. “Good for him. Was your ice cream worth the favor?”

“Oh, Mamá! It was the _best_ ice cream I ever had in my entire life! And Maite is super cool! She’s really pretty and likes the ocean and she has this collection of seagulls and she _knows_ what people want to eat before they do, like a… like a magician!”

“Well, I hope you haven’t ruined your appetite with your _magical_ ice cream. Supper’s going to be ready soon.”

“I’m still hungry. Is it stir-fry?”

“You guessed it.”

“Yummy! We haven’t had that in a long time!”

“Well, thank your papá. He’s the one that asked for it.” She gave the vegetables a shake, looking up as the twins entered the kitchen. “Supper’s at six, if you’re eating.” Felipe went for the fridge, opening up the freezer and sticking his head inside. She looked at Oscar, who shrugged noncommittally. “Alright,” Imelda sighed. “What happened?”

“I told you,” Coco insisted. “Felipe has a girlfriend.”

“I do not!” He denied, voice muffled by the freezer.

“You do too!” Coco clung to Imelda’s skirt, tugging on it as she spoke. “He’s going to make her high heels.”

“Oh?” She looked again to Oscar. He wiggled his hand in a sorta-kinda gesture, making a weird face. Imelda seemed to understand it, though. “Seems like everything’s settled, then.”

“I meant _we_! I don’t care who does it!” He groaned, trying to bury his entire head in the open freezer while cold air fell to the ground around him. Coco shivered, putting her mother as a living shield between the air and her body as she held her hands over the stove.

“Then why didn’t you say that the first time?” Oscar goaded, reaching around him to open the fridge door and fish for a drink. Felipe slammed it on his arm, a small scuffle emerging between them that ended up with Oscar rubbing his hand in defeat.

“I don’t know! I wasn’t thinking!”

“She’s really beautiful,” Coco said. “Not as beautiful as you, Mamá, but close enough.”

“Maite, huh?” Imelda turned off the eye, giving the vegetables a final flick. “I think Doña Lara was telling me about her the other day. She’s from around the border, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know!” Felipe shut the freezer, though his face was still red—and had been since leaving the shop. “I didn’t ask for her life story! And she’s not my girlfriend.” He motioned threateningly to Coco, who stuck out her tongue defiantly.  

“Who?”  Héctor came in the back door, Ernesto at his heels. “Who’s got a girlfriend?”

“Felipe,” the others answered immediately, Imelda joining them without hesitation.

“I don’t!”

“It’s about time,” Ernesto said, elbowing Héctor in the ribs. “I always assumed they’d just split into quadruplets or something.” Héctor clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hide the fact that he was laughing. Imelda glared at them, sliding the vegetables into a bowl before checking on the rice.

“I think it’s _good_ that you found someone you like,” she declared, trying to be comforting. “You should bring her by the house sometime.”

“She’ll come by to get measured for her shoes,” Coco said.

“I don’t _like_ her!”

“Fine, fine! You don’t like her then!” Imelda held up her hands. “We won’t say another thing about her, Mr. Defensive. Now everyone wash up and get ready to _eat_ —even you, Héctor!”  

* * *

Oscar sighed, head hitting the pillow as Felipe turned out the light. He held his hand out automatically, flinching at the foreign scratch of the gauze bandage wrapped tightly around Felipe’s knuckles. Imelda had insisted he doctor it after seeing how red it still was after supper, and had marched him into the bathroom to wrap it up before, as she put it, ‘you end up in the hospital with gangrene or something’.

“ _Oye_.”

“Hmm.” Oscar paused, picking out individual sounds. Coco’s light breaths, Héctor’s grating snore, Imelda’s softer sighs… good. They were all asleep, and Ernesto had left after supper when Imelda hinted at the men doing the dishes. He could talk to his brother without being overheard.  

“I know you really _do_ like her.” There was a put-upon sigh, but no answer. “The ice cream was good, though. Don’t you think?” Still no answer. He slid down the mattress, worming his hand beneath the pillow as he kicked the sheets down to his knees. “We should go back sometime.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Oscar.” He waited, but other than the sound of Felipe turning in the bed there was nothing more.

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: This was one of the longest chapters yet! Mostly because this is the stuff I really wanted to write about, while the last few chapters are just world-building and setting the stage, or singular ideas. The family interacting? Having fun and just being themselves in town? That’s what I’m here for, baby. 
> 
> Maite’s hair is based off those old vintage pin curls that I WISH my hair would do without falling flat in within 10 minutes. She’s another one of my favorite OCs because of her backstory, but I can’t tell you why without ruining further chapters so just take her as she is: a stylish lady who loves everything about the sea despite being raised in the middle of the desert. Her alebrije would of course be a seagull! Expect her character bio to come tomorrow! I hope everyone likes her as much as I do… :3c 
> 
> Here's a video about her hairstyle: this, but just dark brown instead of red: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0TRsqEfR0Bs


	6. The Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off a conversation I was having with twinklecupcake (tumblr) that went to a sad place… 
> 
> Ernesto gets some bad news and goes solo for a while.   
> Coco mourns a loss, and later learns something about Ernesto that answers a few questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:   
> While not graphic, there is brief mention of pet death, specifically euthanasia. It is mentioned in passing, and not detailed.

Imelda sat on the foot of the bed, half-dressed and mouth agape. Her loose hair tickled her shoulders, but she didn’t have time to think about that right now. She was at a loss for words. As the shock turned to sympathy, she quickly slid her thumb over her phone’s screen and turned off the speaker. The last thing she needed right now was to be overheard. She pressed the phone to her ear, the static from her husband’s lousy reception crackling in the background.

“I… don’t know what to say.” It wasn’t often that she was struck speechless, and each time was just as jarring as the last. “Is he… _okay_?”

“ _Por Dios_ , ‘Melda.” Héctor laughed, but there was no joy in it. “It’s as close as he’ll ever come to knowing what it’s like to lose a kid. He’s _devastated_.” She didn’t respond to that. What could she say? He was right. Ernesto—despite his many, many faults—poured everything he had into his beloved chihuahuas. It was somewhat sweet… until he opened his mouth and started talking about them. It couldn’t be said that she actually liked the man; she tolerated him, for Héctor and Coco’s sakes.

Even so, she wouldn’t have wished this on him.

Pepita had only been with them three years, and if anything ever happened to her Imelda would be inconsolable. She loved that ragtag little housecat as though it were a second child. Ernesto had owned that dog for _thirteen years_ ; he’d found it in an alley around the same time Imelda learned she was pregnant. She could still remember the trembling little puppy, too small to be separated from its mother, sitting perfectly in the palm of Ernesto’s hand as though it had been crafted just for him.

“ _Lo siento_.” It seemed ridiculous; _I’m sorry for your loss._ That’s what you said at funerals, not when you hear about the untimely death of an animal. But that’s all she could think of to say. As deeply as Ernesto loved those shrill, barking beasts, he was most likely inconsolable himself.

“Yeah,” Héctor muttered; she could see him in her mind’s eye, running a hand through that messy mop of hair and tugging a handful as he leaned against the wall, cheeks puffed. “I told him to go take a shower, you know—have some time to himself, or something. I’m gonna stay here a while, make him eat some breakfast, I dunno.”

She found herself nodding in time with his words. That was her Héctor: the man who always had a plan, even if the plan was to fly by the seat of his pants until he could think of something better. It always calmed her to know that _one_ of them had an idea about what to do. And in any case, she wasn’t the best at dealing with the… emotionally compromised; that was his forte.

She wracked her brain for something to add, something that didn’t sound cruel and impatient. She was so used to expecting antagonistic behavior from Ernesto— and giving it in return –that extending even a temporary olive branch seemed out of character. But he had experienced loss; a voice in the back of her head said to give him something, _anything_ , because it was the polite way to behave _._ It didn’t help that the voice sounded very suspiciously like her mother. 

“If—if he feels like coming to eat tonight, he’s more than welcome…?” It sounded more like a question, posed to herself. What did it even mean? Ernesto invited himself over to eat all the time. She’d lost count of the times she’d gotten up to make breakfast, only to find him dragging himself to the table along with the rest of the family. She’d even left the spare dining chair at the table, since it made no sense to constantly be dragging it from the broom closet every time he showed his ugly face. _It’s the thought that counts,_ she insisted firmly. _It’s the invitation of it._

“ _S_ _í_ , I’ll let him know.” Héctor’s voice held a measure of relief, washing over her like a wave even through the phone. “I’ll be home by suppertime, though probably not before.” She felt a surge of affection for him; he was a good friend, a better friend then a man like de la Cruz deserved. She cradled the phone to her ear, thumb feeling a chink in the case the same way it glided over his cheekbone.

“That’s fine. We’ll manage,” she assured him warmly. There was a tense pause. “Héctor?”

“Someone… someone’s going to have to tell Coco,” he said slowly. “She’ll need to know eventually.” He said it plainly, but there were many—almost too many—different layers to the words. A request: _would you?_ An assertion: _you should._ A plea: _I can’t._

He hated being the bearer of bad news to their daughter, especially if there was a high possibility of tears. That was her job, the bad cop to his good cop, the grounded doctor to his hopeful nurse. He was Papá, singer of songs and protector against everything from nightmares to unexplained noises in the dark alley behind their house. It left her to be judge and jury, nursemaid, cook, and sometimes a walking ATM. Now, apparently, she was the phone call that no one wanted, the policeman on the doorstep.

No, that wasn’t entirely correct. She was a protector, too. She was _his_ protector, a strong breaker against the waves that would otherwise drown him. He could be weak while she was there to hold him up, taking the brunt of the force. And it wasn’t as though she got nothing for her efforts; he bolstered her with warm embraces, a kiss out of nowhere, a tired grin after a hard day. He kept her strong so that she _could_ stand her ground against the world that would, otherwise, tear them both to shreds.

“I’ll tell her.” She could almost see the weight lifting from his shoulders at the words.

“ _Gracias, mi vida._ You’re a lifesaver.” She heard the muffled slam of a door, the static picking up with the extra noise and nearly drowning his voice. “That’s ‘Nesto. I’ll text you later if anything happens, okay?”

“Sounds good.” She bit her lip, already not looking forward to what had to come. “I love you _._ ”

“Love you too. See you tonight.” She let the click turn to a dial tone before hanging up, tossing the phone behind her on the bed and groaning under her breath. She’d do this for him because she loved him, and because they both knew in the back of their minds that Coco would take the news better from her. She’d be able to answer any questions she had, and keep a stoic expression in the face of the tears guaranteed to come. But she still didn’t like it.

She dressed silently and efficiently, buttoning the white blouse and adjusting the puffed sleeves before tucking it into her belt. She checked her hose for runs and slid into her flats, tapping her toes lightly against the floor. She brushed her hair, twisting the braid up into her favorite style with practiced flicks of her wrist. One final swipe of lipstick to match the mascara on her lids, and she was ready. A strong woman stood reflected in the mirror, a walking force to be reckoned with, and in business casual at that.

She shook her wrist, twisting the loose band of her watch until she could see its face. She had approximately ten minutes before opening time to— _no._ She let her arm fall, taking a deep breath. One of her greatest faults was living by the clock; she was fastidious for a schedule, to the point that she annoyed _herself_. She couldn’t put a time limit on her daughter’s emotions. The twins were here, and it was only a half-day in the shop. They could watch things until she was able to join them.

She opened the bedroom door, peering out into the hallway. Her brothers were in the kitchen, talking animatedly about catalytic converters. They leaned against the stove, passing the milk jug between them and drinking directly from it while they debated. She cleared her throat pointedly and they jumped, startled and guilty. Their heads knocked together with a solid _whack_ , glasses slipping sideways on Felipe’s nose while Oscar choked mid-drink, hand clapped over his mouth.

“Imelda!”

“We—”

“—can explain!”

“Not now,” she hissed, snapping to get their attention before gesturing for them to come to the door. Felipe all but threw the milk back into the fridge, Oscar wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as they crept down the hall. Despite being in their mid-twenties, taller than Héctor and with facial hair to boot, it was still striking to see how boyish they could look when caught red-handed.

“What?” they asked together, standing well out of striking range. She motioned for them to come closer, a finger over her lips. They shared another glance, eyebrows arching to meet the red marks on their foreheads.

“Come here… it’s important.” Her voice dropped, and they had no choice but to come closer and listen. “I have to talk to Coco privately, and I don’t know how long we’re going to be. I need the two of you to set up without me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did something happen?” She nodded.

“One of the dogs had to be put to sleep this morning.” Identical grimaces twisted their mouths.

“Oh.”

“Ugh. That’s sad.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—”

“ _S_ _í_ ,” Oscar nodded. “Poor Ernesto.”

“Poor _Coco_.” Felipe winced. Imelda glanced at her watch again, unable to stop the habitual gesture.

“It’s time. Go and open up. I’ll be there soonish.”

“Right.” They gave her a mock salute. “ _Buena suerte_.”

“And wipe the milk off your face,” she called after them, shaking her head. Steeling her nerves, she turned to the other side of the hall, where the bedrooms were. “Coco? Coco!”

“Um… coming, Mamá!” There was a mad scramble; as the door opened Pepita shot from the room like a bullet, her tail puffed. Imelda stared after the gray streak as it skittered in place on the kitchen floor before finding purchase. “I wasn’t doing anything, I swear!” Coco appeared in the doorway, dropping something out of sight before lacing her fingers against her stomach. Imelda nearly called her on her obvious lie, but something in the back of her mind told her to let it go. Now was the time to show mercy.

“Coco, come here. I want to talk to you.” She motioned for the child to join her in the bedroom. Coco hesitated, suspicious at the change of normal pace. “Come on.” Imelda waved to her again, and Coco obeyed slowly. She glanced up as she passed, turning sideways in the threshold before standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Imelda shut the door behind her, going back to the foot of the bed and sitting down before patting the place next to her.

“Mamá?” Still she hung back, sensing that something wasn’t quite right.

“Come here, sit by me.” Coco was again obedient, climbing onto the high bed before turning to sit at her side. Her legs dangled, crossed at the ankles and hands wringing in her lap.

“Did I… do something?” she asked, voice full of confused apprehension. It was clear that she was trying to think of a forgotten misdeed, some tiny bit of mischief bad enough to land her in her current position.

“No, no. You’re not in trouble. I just want to talk to you a minute.” She let out a low breath, tongue working in her cheek as she tried to put her thoughts into words. “Coco, you know Mani.”

“Yeah?” 

“This morning, Mani had to go to the vet. Your Tío Ernesto noticed that she wasn’t feeling well. And Dr. Valdez said— well, he said that Mani had a tumor in her stomach. Cancer.” It was hard, the words stumbling from her mouth clunkily. She forced herself to meet Coco’s intent, solemn gaze as she spoke. “And he also said that… that she wasn’t going to be getting any better.”

“Is Dr. Valdez going to take the tumor out of her stomach?”

“I—no. I’m sure if he could’ve operated, he would have. But Mani was such an old dog, and she would have been in a lot of pain. So, because she was so sick, Tío Ernesto decided that the best thing to do for Mani was to let Dr. Valdez put her to sleep. That way, she wouldn’t have to hurt.”

“To sleep.” Coco looked down at her lap, picking at her nails. “Like… put down.”

“ _Sí_. They put her down this morning.”

“Oh.” For a moment, everything was quiet. Imelda felt herself on the edge of a precipice, looking down a sheer drop. She said nothing, letting Coco take the time she needed to process the information. Without a sound, two teardrops fell to darken the purple cotton of her sundress. Her thin shoulders jerked once, an involuntary sniffle shaking her frame. “Oh,” she said again, breaking on a high note.

“ _Mija_.” Imelda might not have been the best comforter, but she at least knew how to hold her own child. She drew her close, stroking the back of her head as she leaned down to breathe in the floral chemicals of her shampoo. Coco buried her face in the crook of her neck, hands fisting and wrinkling her blouse as she began to sob in earnest. Imelda said nothing, her body curving protectively around her daughter the same way it had the day she was born; it was as if her muscles could remember those first feeble wails, the tiny, perfect fists clenched as she railed against the world.

 _Born a fighter_ , the doctor had joked.

By the time Coco had cried herself out, Imelda’s blouse was covered in an unappealing mixture of tears and mucus, wrinkled beyond measure and soaked clean through in places. She ignored it for the moment, finding one of Héctor’s rarely used handkerchiefs for the hiccupping girl. She went to the bathroom and came back with a cold cloth, wiping the red cheeks and bloodshot eyes with a kind, if not gentle, efficacy.

“—hurt?”

“What?” She’d been so focused on cleaning her up that she hadn’t realized Coco was talking. Coco sniffed, wiped her nose on the handkerchief, and repeated her question.

“I said, did it hurt?” Her eyes were watery and imploring, full of unwavering trust. “It didn’t hurt her, did it?”

“No. She didn’t even know it was happening.”

“Oh. That’s… good.” She closed her eyes as Imelda scrubbed at the corners. “Is Tío Nesto going to be okay?”

“Well, he’s— he’s very sad. He’ll be sad for a while.”

“Me too.”

“Papá is with him right now. He’ll be alright,” she assured her. “And you will, too. We have to remember Mani as she was in life.”

“I’ll always remember when she stole Tío Felipe’s pizza out of his hand.” The ghost of a smile twitched at her lips. “And how she used to bark until she was hoarse.”

“She was a good… _loud_ … dog, and she had a happy life. That’s what matters.”

* * *

The _zapatería_ on a weekday was one of Coco’s favorite places to be.

There was nothing better than coming home from school and relaxing in the workshop, listening to the cadence of her family. They had their own rhythms, joining together like different instruments to create a symphony of work, work, work.

She especially loved sitting between her twin uncles. Sewing, hammering, cutting: no matter what they did, they did it with a seamless unison. No matter how often she turned from one to another, there wasn’t a single skip in the rise of their arms as they pulled the stiff thread, or the singing of their hammers as they carefully worked with soles. They didn’t even have to look at each other to keep the beat, and they could talk easily to her without getting distracted from their job.

Today they were hammering, her favorite thing to watch. It gave Mamá a headache sometimes, but no matter how loud they could be she never felt any ringing in her ears afterwards. Papá was sitting in his chair beneath the display shelves, his laptop balanced on his legs. He was sending some important emails to the people that bought his songs, so he didn’t have time to play for them this afternoon. Mamá was tallying up her books, the buttons on her fancy calculator click-clacking at top speed while the paper churned from the spool to fall down the back of the counter, tiny numbers written in neat lines.

Coco lay her head on the workbench, closing her eyes and listening to the Rivera song. _Tap-tap-tap-tap_ : the twin’s hammers kept time with a rapid tempo. _Click-clack, click-clack, tic-tic-tic,_ Papá’s keyboard warbled as he backspaced a sentence. _Whir-whir-clickity-clackity-smack_ , Mamá’s fingers sang as they flickered over the numbers. _Tippy-tappy-tippy-tap_ , the soles of her shoes drummed as her own special rhythm joined theirs in harmony.

There was one thing missing, though. She opened her eyes, muffling her sigh against her forearms as she stared at the empty chair beside Papá. Tío Nesto should have been here, the _snick-click_ of a new beer can’s lid, a bass-y _lump-thump_ of his chair legs lifting and hitting the floor. He had his own beat, too; without it, their sound wasn’t complete.

It had been two weeks since anyone had seen him. Coco was used to going spaces of time without her not-blood-uncle, whenever he was off on a tour or had something to take care of in another city. But during those times he was never really _gone_ ; he was always calling Papá or sending funny postcards from the countries he visited. And he always brought something back for her, though Mamá called it a bribe rather than a souvenir.

But this time it was different, and weirder. He didn’t call, he didn’t text, he certainly didn’t send a letter or a postcard. He was in the city, and yet she’d not seen him at all. Coco wasn’t even sure where he lived, though she knew it was a flat with at least three stories. Papá went to check on him every few days, but he wouldn’t let her go with him. He wouldn’t let her call him on the phone either, or Skype, or FaceTime, or even _text_.

“Be patient,” he said whenever she asked, smiling down at her. Coco wasn’t a little kid anymore. She was twelve; she knew what that meant. _Don’t bother your Tío Nesto,_ that smile said. It was almost as if no one else was worried about him, which couldn’t be right. Why was she the only one? It made her feel gross and icky inside, like she was pushing and pushing against a wall that just wouldn’t budge no matter how much she needed it to. The more she thought about it, the worse she felt.

It built up and built up until—

“Papá!” Mamá looked up sharply, but Papá only help up a finger for her to wait. He spelled a word to himself, mouth moving quietly as he looked down his nose at the screen. When he was done, he looked up at her. She slid from her seat, going to stand in front of him. She stood tall the way Mamá did, crossing her arms with a stern frown.

“ _When_ is Tío Nesto coming back?” If he wouldn’t let her go to him, she just had to find out when he’d come back to them. If she had a date, something that Mamá could circle on the family calendar, then it would be easier for her to be the good, patient little girl they wanted her to be. Papá glanced at Mamá.

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged, looking back at his laptop. “When he’s ready.” Coco seethed, face scrunching as she was promptly dismissed. That wasn’t an answer at all! That was just one of those dumb things adults said to make kids stop asking questions!

“Maybe you should go check on him again.” Papá wasn’t typing, but he didn’t look up at her, either. He seemed to be thinking about what to say. She stood there, refusing to move until he answered. She wasn’t a _baby_. She could handle adult things. If this was some adult thing, she had as much as right to know as anyone else in the room.

“He’s fine,” Papá finally replied, his voice slow and musing.

“Coco, let your papá work.” Mamá made a shooing motion with her hand, sending her back in the direction of the table. She adjusted her reading glasses, making a face at her that said _no backtalk._ Coco turned to obey, her feet already dragging her back to the stool. Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe had stopped hammering, staring at her curiously through their big, round lenses. Everyone had stopped, the rhythm interrupted by her questions.

If it started again, she’d never learn anything.

“Can’t we—” Knowing full well that she was being disobedient, she turned on her heel and tried to address her father as a fellow adult. “Papá, can’t we at least ask his family to go check on him?” Maybe it was one of those things where you weren’t supposed to interfere unless you were related. Tío Ernesto and Papá called each other _hermano_ , but they weren’t really brothers. They were just very good friends. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong place for help. If she could find Tío Nesto’s relations, she might stand a chance of getting a good look at him.

Papá and Mamá shared another, longer look. Mamá didn’t even scold her for her naughtiness. She turned to see Tío Oscar and Tío Felipe frowning at her; it wasn’t in an angry way, though. It was as though her question was confusing to them.

“Uh, Coco?”  Tío Felipe scratched the sharp edge of the hammer against his cheek, and it left a faint red mark. “Ernesto doesn’t _have_ any family.”

That just… didn’t make sense. Everyone had family. It was impossible not to; people didn’t just fall out of the sky ready-made. They had to have someone to raise them and take care of them and—

“You’re lying.” The twins had to be playing one of their tricks on her, trying to see how gullible she was. But Papá was shaking his head.

“They’re right, _mija_.”

“B-But… he’s _got_ to. He’s got a mamá, right?” She looked to Mamá, who shook her head as well. “A papá?”

“No.”

“Tíos? Tías? Primos? _Abuelos_? **_Hermanos_**?!” They all just kept shaking their heads, like bobble headed dolls dancing to unheard music. She stood in the center of it all, the unsettled eye of the storm. “But _how_?”

“Well, you know.” Papá looked uncomfortable now. “There are just some people in the world who don’t have any family.” She opened her mouth to argue, to state her point that someone couldn’t have come from nothing, and then she remembered something. Last fall, when they were setting up the _ofrenda_ with Papá Eli’s photo, and her other grandparents, the ones that had died before she was ever born….

_Your Tío Nesto, uh—he’s not a big fan of Día de Muertos. He’s got his own traditions, I guess._

Papá had said that as they worked together on the _cempasúchil_ path, when she asked why Tío Nesto never celebrated with them. She’d always assumed Papá had meant he liked to have privacy on the holiday, like their neighbors. That he wanted to spend the holiday at home, putting offerings on his own family’s _ofrenda_. But like a bucket of cold water, the truth doused her to the core: he didn’t have an _ofrenda_.

He didn’t have anyone.

“That’s not true!” It took her a moment to realize she’d spoken aloud, her hands clenched in fists at her side. “He’s my _tío_. _We’re_ his family.” The moment she said it aloud, she knew it was the truth. He belonged with them, a part of their music. He had a place at the table, a chair in the workshop, a cushion on the sofa. A place on her _ofrenda_ too, when the time came (hopefully in the far, far future) for him to pass on to the next world. 

“I—well—” Papá’s brows wrinkled and he scratched his head. “I mean, you’re not wrong. _Sí_ , he’s family.” Mamá frowned, but didn’t say anything.

“He needs to be here,” she said firmly, putting her foot down. If he came back, everything would be better. Even if he was still sad—she was too, when she had time to stop and think about Mani—your family made you feel better. She’d work super, super hard to make him happy again. They could sit in the living room and watch prize fighting while Mamá was busy in the shop, and she’d even let him have her lo mein without complaining. “He needs to… to come home.”

“Coco, he’s got a home. He’s there right now,” Mamá pointed out.

“I know but…” She wished that she could put her feelings into words that her parents could understand. She faltered, trying to make sense of what she meant and still feeling, somehow, that she came up short. “This is his home, too.”

* * *

Days passed, and it became easier just to pretend that Tío Nesto was just on one of his sabbaticals. She could almost forget that he wasn’t around, pushing his absence to the back of her mind only to be reminded when their family’s rhythm fell short of its mark.

And then… he was back.

She was ready for school, and wandered into the living room to watch cartoons while waiting on Mamá to finish breakfast. There he was, flipping through channels with his feet propped on the coffee table. It was like he’d never left. She stared at him from the threshold, looking for some sign that he wasn’t the same, that he’d really been gone. It had almost been _two months_ , after all! But he was just… himself: showered, shaved, dressed in his usual pressed pants and some weird designer shirt. Maybe his expression was a little duller, more tired around the edges of his mouth. But other than that—nothing.

“You’re back!” Her voice squeaked on a high note, full of disbelief. His head jerked from the TV, jumping in place. He hadn’t noticed her come in, then. She stared at him, wide-eyed, waiting for him to talk.

“… And?”

“It really _is_ you!” She dropped her bookbag and flung herself onto the sofa. A half-formed theory about aliens or doppelgangers had been forming in the back of her mind, but there was only one man in Santa Cecelia who talked the way he did. It _had_ to be him. “Tío!”

“He—get off!” He shoved her back easily with one hand, the same way he always did. She wrapped her arms around his, hugging the rock-hard muscles beneath his sleeve. “Did you not hear me?! Get off!”

“Hang on.” She jumped away from him, backing out of the room. “Don’t go anywhere.” He scoffed, turning back to the TV as she ran through the kitchen. She nearly plowed right into Tío Oscar as he came out of the bathroom, sidestepping his legs at the last minute.

“Where’s the fire?” he asked, squinting down at her without his glasses.

“Tío Nesto’s back!” she called over her shoulder gleefully.

“Oh.”  She didn’t wait for any further reply, running into her bedroom and throwing open her drawers. She still had it… somewhere…. _Aha_!

She pulled the piece of paper from the bottom of her nightstand, trinkets clattering to the ground around her feet. Pepita’s paw came from beneath the bed, batting at one of her marbles; she left it for her, gathering up the rest of her treasures and throwing them back into the drawer before slamming it shut with her foot.

It was supposed to have been a get well soon card. Realizing that he wasn’t sick, she’d been at a loss for what to write and instead had just saved it as a nice picture. She’d meant to give it to him when he came back; of course, he was supposed to have come back long before now. What was it that Papá said? Better late than never? Or something like that….

She ran back down the hall, sliding past her mother in the kitchen.

“Coco, the van’s in the back; I’m going to a conference so I’m dropping you off on the way.” Mamá was digging in her purse for her keys, talking around the checkbook in her mouth and not even looking at her.

“Be right there!” She bounced into the living room, where to his credit Tío Nesto was right where she’d left him. “Here! It’s for you!” She held the paper face down, grinning at him. He took it cautiously, turning it over. He stared for a long time at the card, nostrils flared and mouth working.

“What is this?” he eventually asked.

“Coco?”

“One second!” She glanced quickly at the archway to the kitchen. “It’s for you,” she repeated. “I drew it myself.”

“I _get_ that. But what _is_ it?”

“It’s… a drawing!” She shrugged, giggling.

“ _Coco_!”

“I gotta go.” She scooped up her bag from the floor. “See you after school.”

“Hng.” She couldn’t help but smile giddily. _Same old Tío_ _Nesto._ Already, her prediction had come true. Things were better, and could only be going up from there. She waved one last time, turning on her heel and hurrying before her mother could call a third time.

She was in too big of a rush, and so didn’t see the man frown down at the picture in his hands. It was crudely drawn, hardly artwork. The lines on her pigtails were thick enough to nearly break through the printer paper, and his head was about five sizes too big. She’d even drawn the damn gray streaks starting to show near his ears. The three dogs around them—he assumed they were dogs—had wide, gaping eyes and circular, grotesque bodies. It was a travesty, despite how flat the smiles of the two people in the picture were.

He made a move to crumple it, stopping only when the first crease appeared in the paper. He smoothed it slowly, nose crinkling, and then sighed. Folding it quickly, he opened his wallet and slid the paper inside. Pocketing the wallet, he crossed his arms and settled in for a morning nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:   
> Gotta get that found family trope in there somewhere….   
> This chapter wasn't even supposed to happen, so the next one will be lots of fun! 
> 
> I have a ko-fi if you’d like to fuel my caffeine addiction. it's ko-fi.com/jubalii :3c


	7. The Beach Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a beach day!  
> AKA, an excuse to write cute scenarios.

Imelda had stopped trying to _not_ look like someone’s mother long ago.

It was a waste of time and energy to be sad about wearing what—in her mind, at least—was comfortable. Not that she was walking around in public with a bathrobe and curlers like Doña Valencia, of course; she would _never_ stoop that low, and she didn’t own any curlers to begin with. This was as casual as she went, with elastic capris that looked like jeans and an old concert tee she’d stolen from her husband while pregnant with Coco. Beneath the tee, the straps of her ‘mom skirt’ bathing suit dug into the meat of her shoulders. She ignored it, tucking a strand of thick hair back into the mass piled somewhat neatly on top of her head and held with a single, sad claw clip.

She stood in front of her beloved Toyota, which was gutted and ready to be filled. Every door from the driver’s side to the trunk was standing open, the lights off and keys safely dangling from her pinkie. Her eyes were locked on the clipboard in her hand, lips wrapped around the eraser of her pencil as she scanned the list one last time. She _knew_ that everything they would need was on the list; still, it was always much better to check one more time. There could be nothing left out or forgotten. It wasn’t just the inconvenience: her personal pride was at stake. Imelda Rivera always had everything under control.

The front gate opened and Héctor walked through, a bulging tote slung over one bony shoulder and his flat sandals slapping against the stone. She glanced him over as he sat the tote by the van for her inspection, taking advantage of his lack of attention. He rolled his neck, cracking it with a muffled grunt before stretching his lanky limbs to the cloudless, pale pre-dawn sky. 

The sight before her shouldn’t have been handsome at all, with his uncombed hair already curling from the muggy weather and the greasy sheen of sweat on his nose. He was wearing a ratty tank that showed too many ribs and too much hair, and his swim shorts were already sagging off his hips despite the strings being pulled as tight as possible. There really wasn’t any fat on him, and barely any muscle; he was skin and bone, unfit to last more than two days in a famine.

He caught her eye and grinned widely enough that the gold of his crown glinted in the early morning light. His dimples puckered his thin cheeks and the faint crow’s feet near his eyes crinkled further, sure signs that he—and she by comparison—edged closer to forty every year. She knew that if she ran her fingers through his hair, she’d easily find little pinpoints of soft silver mingled in with the black.

Her heart quickened, and yet again she was taken aback by just how adorable she found him. She’d thought that once she was married, his hold on her would ease; at the very least, she should have been able to look at his goofy grin without feeling like a teenager. But no matter how many years passed, she still surprised herself with how much she cared about him. She had the sneaking suspicion that even when they were both old and wrinkled, she’d still find something in him worth looking at.

“Sunscreen and towels, _mi amor_.” He gestured to the tote before walking towards her, bending down for a kiss. She inclined her cheek to him, mouth pursing at the state of the bag. It was one of the cheap plastic ones she’d picked up on bargain at the grocery store, not good for much of anything and easily disposable. He’d managed to stuff every beach towel they owned into it, the steams stretched to their limits.  

“Héctor, at least _attempt_ to fold them,” she complained lightly, pointing the pencil at the towels trailing from the bag. “I’d like to have a towel that didn’t come pre-gritty with road dust, thank you.”

“This is how I found them, Imelda.” He deflated, nose wrinkling at the bag as he trudged over to pick it back up.

“Then fix them, please.” He sat them on the passenger seat, draping towels over the open door as he unpacked everything. There was a muffled curse and a yelp as three cans of sunscreen fell out of the bag, landing perfectly on his toes before rolling beneath the van. She shook her head, rolling her eyes as he haphazardly continued to pile wrinkled towels on top of each other. It was no mystery how they got so messy in the first place. _I live in a barnyard…._

“Mamá.” The front door opened and Coco stepped out, swinging her weight on the door as she clung to the knob. Her blue sundress flapped around her knees, bare feet already dirty from running about the backyard (at her father’s heels, no doubt).

“Yes?”

“I think Pepita wants to go too.” Imelda looked up from her list, brows rising to meet the sunglasses perched on her forehead.

“I can assure you: Pepita does _not_ want to go.” She shook her head, hiding a smile as she turned back to her clipboard. Even with Héctor’s help, she had to fight a solid hour the last time she tried to take Pepita to the vet. She wasn’t about to struggle with four flailing, furry limbs and the carrier just to satisfy one of Coco’s whims. “She doesn’t like water.”

“Yeah, but she might be lonely here by herself.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Héctor snapped one of the towels with a crisp flick of his wrists, scattering dust and old sand. He grinned, folding it quickly—if not neatly—and shoving it into the bag. “Cats like to have time alone. To Pepita, it’ll be like having a mini-vacation right in the comfort of her own home.”

“What if we find out that she snuck out and came with us anyway?” Imelda didn’t need maternal instincts to know that something was amiss. She frowned, jaw tensing as she sized up the child still testing the doorknob’s strength with her whole weight.

“Coco, whatever you’ve done… go and undo it. _Before_ we leave.” The face blinking back at her was deceptively innocent, but Imelda knew better than to believe something so angelic when it came to her kid. She inclined her head just enough to hit Coco with the ‘mamá stare’ she’d inherited from her own mother. It had a better effect, but before Coco could open her mouth there was a startled shout and a single jarring, entirely feline shriek. It was followed by an eerie radio silence, one that better fit a horror movie than a Thursday morning.

“Alright.” Imelda shifted her weight to one hip, lips pursed. “What did you do?”

“I—”

“ _Coco_!” Coco flinched, letting go of the doorknob and taking off in a dead sprint. She only made it as far as the end of the front stoop before Oscar was sliding through the door after her. He grabbed her in a tight hold, yanking her off her feet in one swift motion. She immediately went on the defensive, kicking and voicing her loud, wordless protests.

“Oh, no,” Oscar hissed between clenched teeth. His glasses were askew, two thin lines on his cheek beading with blood. “You’re going in there and putting everything back the way I had it.”

“Mamá!”

“You heard your tío.” Imelda nodded to the house. “Go clean your mess.” Coco opened her mouth to argue and she added, “It’s not too late to call off the whole trip, you know.”

“Mmrgh.” With one final, eloquent grunt she went limp, and Oscar let her go. She stomped into the house, mumbling under her breath. Oscar shook his head.

“Do you know what she did?!”

“I don’t want to know.” Héctor snorted, coughing as he accidentally inhaled sand from the towel.

“But—”

“I don’t want to _know_.” She pointed to his cheek. “I can guess, and that’s already bad enough. Go wash the blood off your face.”

“I’m _bleeding_?!”  He touched his fingers to his cheek, wincing as they came away smeared with red. “Ugh!”

“Go wash it off!” Imelda prodded him between the shoulders with her pencil, shepherding him back into the house ahead of her. Héctor could be trusted alone with the towels; she was clearly needed to police whatever chaos was going on inside.

Coco was squatting in the kitchen beside Héctor’s oversized insulated lunchbox, face screwed in concentration as she—quite literally—tried to put all the snacks back in the exact way Oscar had packed them. Pepita watched her warily from the top of the fridge, tail puffed and eyes dilated to their fullest. _Oh, my poor baby_ …. Imelda paused, reaching up to pet her. Not wanting to be touched, Pepita squeaked and moved backwards until only the glow of her eyes were visible from beneath the top cabinets.

Felipe walked in through the mudroom, dragging the rolling cooler behind him and letting it fall to the tile with a grunt of exertion. He kicked the top open with the edge of his sandal and motioned for Imelda to inspect, frowning at his brother.

“What happened to you?”

“Ask your niece,” Oscar grumbled, shouldering past him on the way to the bathroom.

“Huh?” Felipe turned to Coco, still bent over the lunchbox as she fought the zipper.

“Nothing.” Imelda shifted through the ice with one hand, shivering slightly as she perused the drinks packed neatly in the bottom. “Is this all the ice we have?”

“Yep. I think it’ll be fine, though.” Felipe crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Even if it melts, everything _should_ stay cool. If we don’t keep opening it every five minutes, that is.” He glanced again at Coco. “Do you need help?”

“No! I… I can get it, hang on—” She shoved her weight onto the lid, and finally managed to zip the lunchbox. It bulged, metal teeth straining, but held. “There! See?”

“That’s fine. Now take it out and put in the van.” Imelda turned to her clipboard. “Drinks, snacks, towels… extra clothes?”

“Packed last night,” Felipe assured her, pointing to the five plastic sacks neatly stacked beside the arch.

“Floats.”

“We never took those out of the van,” Oscar pointed out, still scrubbing at his damp cheek as he joined them. “From the last time.”

“Right. Hmm….” Imelda began chewing her eraser again. “Umbrella?”

“It’s by the back gate. Héctor said last night that he’d put it in when he started packing the trunk.”

“He’s got the sunscreen, too….” Imelda tapped the pencil against her chin. “What are we forgetting?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Me either.”

“Well… that’s everything on the list, too….” Imelda shook her head. There was no sense in stressing out over some imaginary forgotten thing, when she had both a list and the agreement of two other people that they had everything they could think to bring.

“That’s that,” she finally conceded, putting the clipboard on the kitchen table and forcing herself to leave it. “Come on, let’s start packing it up.”

* * *

“Mamá….” Coco’s voice held a familiar note of childlike urgency. “Mamá, _necesito usar el baño_.”

“What?!” Imelda slapped her hand against the cracked leather of the steering wheel, peeking quickly in the review mirror before speeding up to pass a slow truck. “I _specifically_ asked everyone if they had to go before we left the house; why didn’t you go then?”

“I didn’t need to go then!” Coco moaned, twisting in her seat.

Oscar and Felipe looked at each other, muffling sighs. At least Coco had clearly tried to hold it as long as possible; they were only fifteen minutes out from the beach. Of course, even if they tried to point it out, they were so far behind Imelda that she’d have to ask them to repeat it, and then Ernesto would get impatient and snappy, and then they’d break their (one day, counting today) record of no one fighting in the van on a trip.

The van was packed to the gills, and unfortunately for the twins they were forced with the short end of the stick. Héctor got front passenger seat since, in his words, he was ‘co-head of household’. Which meant that Coco had to sit with the dogs, and the dogs had to sit with Ernesto, and _Ernesto_ had to sit where he could talk to Héctor without screaming. So he, Coco, and the dogs took up the bulk of the middle bench, leaving them to make out as best they could on the back bench.

“Just hold on another few minutes and we’ll be there,” Imelda assured her, going as fast as midmorning beachfront traffic would allow. She blew the horn impatiently at a group of slow-moving teens crossing the street, waving them on with a scowl and growling when one of the bolder ones flipped her off in return. Coco whimpered, squeezing the dog on her lap—Blanca, Ernesto’s white, overweight shorthair. The chihuahua licked its chops, stubby tail wagging as it let out a muffled grunt.   

“ _Mamá-á-á_ —”

“Just a minute!” Imelda swung around a parked suburban, nearly taking off the review mirror as she leaned forward to find the turnoff. Ernesto looked up from the _fútbol_ highlights on his phone, glancing at Coco. He paled.

“Uh… Héctor?” Héctor turned to look over his shoulder. Their eyes met and he took his bare feet from the front dash, slipping them back into his flip-flops before craning around to check on his daughter.

“ _Shi—_ 'Melda—”

“ _I said give me a minute_!” Her knuckles went white as she clutched the wheel. “I can’t find the damn parking lot!” Coco squeezed Blanca tighter, the dog’s eyes bulging.

“Maybe we should pull over?” Felipe bit his lip, wincing as he watched his niece.

“We can’t just _pull ove—_ here!” Imelda spun the wheel without warning, and the van careened into a turning lane at the last minute. They all flew to the right as she took a sharp turn, trying to beat the traffic light. Oscar tumbled face first into his brother’s chest, the two of them slipping on the leather seat. Ernesto cradled a barking Alonzo to his chest, diving for Chano as the sleeping dog became a projectile; he caught him in his free hand, chin banging against Héctor’s seat and phone sliding to the floorboards. Coco screamed, her shoulder bouncing against the sliding door as she turned her body to protect Blanca from the brunt of the fall. Héctor’s head smacked with a dull thud against the passenger window, a muffled curse escaping through clenched teeth.

The van protested with a crunch as it nearly bottomed out, taking the dip between the highway and the entrance to the public beach at top speed. The parking lot was surprisingly empty, only a few other vehicles parked near the front of the dunes.

“Coco, unbuckle,” Imelda ordered, steering the van to join them and slamming the brakes once she found a spot. Before the car stopped Héctor’s door was open, one hand rubbing the back of his head as he slung open the sliding door and picked his daughter bodily from the seat. Coco squealed, letting Blanca jump back onto the bench as her papá ran her in the direction of the bathrooms. Imelda sighed, resting her forehead against the wheel before looking in the mirror. “Is everyone okay?”

“Never better,” Ernesto huffed sarcastically, on his knees in the space between the benches as he searched for his phone. “Stay,” he commanded, when Alonzo began sniffing at the open door. The three dogs obeyed, crowding near the door and raising their heads to sniff the salty air.

“Boys?”

“Sí,” Oscar groaned, adjusting his glasses and wincing. “We’re—”

“Never better,” Felipe finished, plucking at the front of his MotoGP shirt with a frown. The edge of Oscar’s glasses had caught a snag, and now there was a small hole beneath the logo. Well, at least now Imelda wouldn’t have a problem knowing whose shirt was whose when she did the laundry.

“Great!” Turning off the ignition, she unbuckled her seatbelt and threw open her own door. “Then let’s start unpacking.” Ernesto rolled his eyes, trying to crawl beneath the seats as he continued searching for his phone. Oscar waited until Imelda opened the trunk before kicking the umbrella to the ground; they crawled out of the back, their long legs easily reaching over the bags stuffed into the narrow space. It was easier than trying to maneuver their way back over the middle bench and step around three dogs in the process.

“Go ahead and take the umbrella,” Imelda dictated, frowning as she picked it up and thrust it into Felipe’s hands. “Oscar, you grab the towels and the clothes.” She raised onto her tiptoes, trying to see into the van. “Ernesto, when you’re done crawling around like an idiot, grab the lunchbox on your way out.”

“Ha-ha; you know, if you didn’t drive like a maniac, I wouldn’t be down here in the first place.”

“He’s right,” Oscar pointed out.

“And you call _our_ driving bad.”

“Héctor’s an old grandpa compared to you, _hermana_.”

“ _Cállate_ ,” she tsked. “At least I’m not in jail every weekend because I tried to take a shortcut through government property.”

“Ay,” Felipe rolled his eyes. “You do something _once_ , and you never hear the end of it.”

* * *

Coco was content to take control of the dogs while the adults staked their claim on a semi-secluded spot of beach. She wandered around the shifting sands, three leashes pulling her in three different directions as the dogs explored every inch of ground.

Blanca stuck close to her, investigating the local décor and barking at every potentially dangerous piece of beached seaweed. She protected Coco with her very life, considering the child to be an abnormally large, funny looking puppy. Alonzo, the shorthaired scaredy-cat, ran from his own shadow when he turned too quickly and nearly sent her flying to the ground. Chano lazily dragged behind the rest of them, his beady eyes watching a group of sandpipers as they ran from the waves.

Ernesto and Héctor fought with the umbrella, stubborn and rusted after nearly ten years of continuous use. It was stuck, both men exerting all their strength while trying to keep out of the way. Finally Ernesto braced himself and yanked, the clasp snapping apart and sending Héctor sprawling on the sand as the umbrella popped open unexpectedly. Héctor spat out sand, making audible sounds of disgust as he stumbled to his feet. Ernesto roared with laughter, hands on his knees.

“Oh, you think that’s funny, huh?” Héctor rushed him, his thin form bouncing off Ernesto’s broad chest pathetically. He tried to grab him in a headlock, the two men tussling before Ernesto picked Héctor off the ground as easily as if he were a child. “Woah! Hey!”

“C’mon, _amigo_.” Ernesto hefted him easily, snorting. “What’re you going to do? We both know I could just throw you in the ocean.”

“Yeah, right! Not when I do… this!” Héctor licked his palm before slapping it against the back of his friend’s neck, laughing when the man shuddered in repulsion.

“Ah, that’s _disgusting_!”

“Aww, are you not man enough to take it?”

“I don’t want your _spit_!”

“When you two are through acting like ten-year-old’s, I’d _appreciate_ some help.” Imelda glared at them, hands on her hips. “Honestly, you’re in public,” she fussed. “Act your age.”

“We’re just young at heart, _mi amor_.” Ernesto let go and he slumped to the ground, wiping his hand on his swim shorts. “You better watch out,” he added, a sly note creeping into his tone. “You might just be next.” She stared at him, mouth pursed, until he stilled.

“Just try it, and see if I don’t snap your wrist,” she deadpanned. Héctor laughed nervously, watching as she knelt to unpack the towels and spread them in the shade of the umbrella. “Coco!” she called, when she reached the cans of sunscreen at the bottom.

“Coming!” She began tugging the leashes, trying to reverse as the dogs continued down the beach. “Chano, _vamonos_!” Ernesto shook his head before clicking his tongue, letting out a single piercing whistle. The dogs turned, looking at their papá; all three began making a beeline in his direction, as fast as their short legs could carry them. Coco stumbled after them, trying to keep up as her sandals slid across the sand.

“Come here, _mija_.” Imelda brandished one of the bottles. “You’re not getting roasted alive today.”

“Aw, Mamá…” Coco slumped, digging her toes into the sand. “That stuff burns my eyes!”

“Then wait until it dries before getting in the ocean.” Imelda shook the can, clicking the lid until it unlocked. “Now turn around and lift your braids.”

“Ugh.” Coco obeyed, bending her head forwards in advance. “None of my friends have to wear sunscreen,” she complained, shivering when the first blast of cold spray hit her exposed neck. “They just all get really brown in summer.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re thirty and your skin isn’t all wrinkled like your friends,” Imelda replied reasonably, pulling aside the straps of her bikini tank and spraying her shoulders. “That is, if they don’t all get sun cancer and die first.”

“They won’t _all_ get sun cancer,” Coco muttered, shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot.

“Hmm?”

“I said… never mind,” she answered quickly, unable to think up a good excuse on the fly.

“That’s what I thought. Now turn back around and take a deep breath.” Coco scrunched her face.

“Not my eyes!”

“Fine, fine.” Imelda covered her eyes with her fingers. “ _Now_ take a deep breath.” Coco obliged, sucking her lips in and puffing her cheeks. Imelda quickly sprayed, using her thumbs to outline around her eyes. “But don’t come crying to me if you look like a _mapache_ tomorrow.”

Coco said nothing, blinking rapidly as the chemicals from the sunscreen irritated her eyes. Imelda quickly sprayed her arms and legs while she was motionless, even getting the spaces between her toes and the tops of her ears. The last thing she needed was Coco complaining about having a sunburn on her feet.

“Wait,” Coco said, when she moved to spray herself. “You forgot a spot. Here.” She held out her hand, and Imelda patiently sprayed some sunscreen into it. Using her fingers, Coco gingerly tapped sunscreen into the part between her braids. “There.” She rubbed the remaining spray on her swimsuit.

“You remember the rules,” Imelda lectured as she undressed, revealing her bathing suit beneath her clothing. Behind her, Héctor paused his digging through the lunchbox, staring openly. Ernesto batted his hands away, grumbling under his breath as he searched for something worth eating.

“ _S_ _í_ , Mamá.” Coco rolled her eyes, full of preteen vigor. “Stay in sight of the umbrella. Don’t go into the water past my waist unless an adult is with me. If I have to use the bathroom, let someone know where I’m going. Come as soon as I’m called. Don’t pick up anything that’s still alive, unless it’s a dog.”

“Very good.” Imelda sat one leg at a time on the cooler, spraying her legs up to the waist. She had three meetings next week, and pantyhose rubbing against a sunburn wasn’t going to cut it. She needed to be on her a-game. “Now let’s see if you’re responsible enough to follow them.”

“I am.” Coco bounced on the balls of her feet. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, go on.” Between blinks she was already halfway to the ocean, kicking up wet sand. Imelda shook her head, spraying her arms before putting more sunscreen in her hands to cover her own face and ears.

“I-I-I’ll do your back,” Héctor offered quickly, tripping over the cooler.

“My bathing suit covers most of my back.” Imelda turned her attention to her chest, rubbing the small square of skin between the straps. She didn’t need her bra sitting on top of a burn, either…. Héctor touched the rise of her back, one calloused finger trailing lightly up her spine.

“Not here,” he sang softly.

“Héctor!” She jumped forward, turning only when she was sure she could give him a taste of her sternest frown. Her voice lowered. “We’re in _public_.”

“And?” He winked. “All I said was that I’d put sunscreen on your back. Aren’t you reading too much into this, _mi amada_?”

“ _Dios mío_ —”

“—get a room.” Héctor grunted as two MotoGP tees hit him in the back of the head. Oscar shrugged off his shoes, taking Felipe’s as well before offering one to their sister. “Here, do you need something to beat him back with?” he teased, laughing when the tops of her cheeks began to redden.

“Really.” Ernesto sat his foldout chair in direct sunlight, pushing his sunglasses over his eyes as he lay down for his first sunbathing session of the day. Beneath his chair the dogs gathered on his beach towel, digging at the fabric before curling up together in the shade his body created. “There’s a hotel down the street; you’re welcome to use it.”

“Ah, shut up.” Héctor flopped onto his stomach beneath the umbrella, digging divots with his toes in the sand as he relaxed with a sigh. “A guy’s allowed to look at his wife. Maybe later, then?” he asked Imelda as she sat in her chair beside him, legs in the sun and a book in her hand.

“Don’t hold your breath.” She tapped her bookmark against her teeth, finding her place on the page. The twins shook their heads, making equal faces of disgust as they left the three to their relaxing. Who came to the beach to sit all day, anyway?

Lots of people, from the looks of things. The beach was surprisingly not very crowded; there were more people enjoying the weather from the promenade, skating or riding bikes, ducking in and out of the shops or sitting on barstools in front of the restaurants. There were some fishermen farther down the beach, but most of them looked to be on the pier, barely visible in the hazy distance. Most of the people actually on the sand were asleep or nearly so, spread out on chairs and towels. A few children were closer to the water’s edge, digging trenches and chasing crabs as they tumbled in the shallows, pinchers clicking.

“Tíos!” Coco ran up to them, grabbing their hands. She was already wet from the waist down, wasting no time in going in as far as her mother’s rules would allow. “Hold me in the water, pretty please?” 

“Fine.” They each got a better grip on her hand, beginning the laborious process of fighting the waves as they waded out into the ocean. By the time they were up to their diaphragms, the water was well over Coco’s head. They held her up easily, letting her natural buoyancy do most of the work while they made sure her head stayed above the waves. She shrieked with laughter, trying to jump as high as possible in the water as some of the rougher waves nearly tore her from her uncles’ hands.

“Let one hit me, please-please-please- _please_ —”

“You know,” Felipe told her wryly, “ _normal_ kids don’t want to drown.”

“I won’t drown,” she promised, grinning. “You wouldn’t let that happen to me, Tío Felipe.”

“Oh, I might,” he replied vaguely, winking at his brother. The last few waves had been small, but now the water was falling to their navels, their waists, even lower as it gathered into the next surge. “In fact…”

“Yes, maybe we’ll just let you get washed out to sea this _once_ —”

“Since that’s what you really want, after all—”

“—Ready?” She nodded eagerly, taking a deep breath. “Here it comes!” They both let go of her arms and she dropped like a cork, bobbing down in the water with only her braids floating above the surface.

Her blind trust in them wasn’t unfounded, of course; they’d never _really_ let her go, only loosened their grips at the same time so that it felt that way. At the last possible moment they grabbed tight, holding onto their glasses and bracing themselves as the wave washed over their heads as well. They yanked Coco up as high as possible, letting her get the first breath of air as the water went back to normal height.

“Again!” she sputtered, blinking saltwater from her eyes. “Do it again!”

 “You’re the weirdest kid,” Oscar grinned. “And you get heavier every year; you know that, right?”

“I’m not that heavy!” Coco tried to jump in the water. “Again, just one more!”

“Fine, but you have to wait for a big one.” They stood patiently in the water, the sun beating down on their faces. It felt even hotter after the cool water had already washed over them once. As the water began to lower again, Coco suddenly shrieked.

“There’s something in the water!” She gasped. “There! Look, look!”

“Where?!” They both pulled her behind them, glancing hurriedly into the swirling waters around them. They already had bad eyesight, and seawater drenched glassed did _not_ make 20/20 vision. What was it she’d seen? Jellyfish? A shark? Some large, harmless fish? There could be anything, now that they were past the sandbar and in the more open water.

They heard Coco suck in a quick breath and the wave hit them like a semi-truck, nearly knocking them off their feet. They quickly grasped for their glasses, knowing from prior experience that waves could all too easily sweep a pair from a person’s nose. In their confused panic, neither of them forgot to lift her up above the water, lungs burning from the lack of air.

“Gotcha!” she giggled, once the wave had passed. “You should’ve seen your faces!” A trick, then. Really, they should have expected no less; she was Héctor’s kid, after all, and their niece.

“Oh, yeah?” Oscar took her, using the water to help him lift her. “You know what _that_ means.”

“No!” she screamed, clearly enjoying every minute of it. “No, don’t!” 

“Divebomb!” Oscar fell into the water, tackling her with enough splashing and kicking that Felipe was as wet as if he’d fallen in, too. He brought Coco up after a moment, holding her like a baptism, and prepared for a second dunking.

“Mamá!” she screamed, reaching a hand to the shore. “ _Ayúdame_!”

“I think you probably deserve that.” They turned to see Imelda wading out to join them, squinting against the water’s glare. “If you were crying wolf. It’ll serve you right when they let a shark eat you.”

“They wouldn’t,” she replied, wriggling out of her uncle’s grasp. “Swim with me, Mamá.”

“If you come back to the shallower water, I will.” Imelda held out her hands, and when the next wave came Coco rode it to meet her. “All this splashing around and you’ll be ready for a nap.”

“Aww, I’m not a _kid_.”

“Well, I know I’ll be ready for one.” The twins left Coco to her care and began fighting their way back to shore. It was always harder to get out of the water than it was going in; not only did the sand disappear from under their feet mid-step, but the waves beat at their back and legs as they clambered their way to shore.

“Uff.” Oscar rolled his shoulder. “I feel like a weigh a ton.”

“So do I.” Felipe winced at the hot sand clinging to their wet, bare feet. “Your shorts are sagging.”

“So are yours.”

Héctor waved to them as they approached, propped up on his elbows as he watched his girls splashing in the ocean. Ernesto was already dozing. While they were out in the water he’d put the dogs in their beach outfits: two white shirts for the boys, one white skirt for the girl. They all wore little straw hats and little doggy sunglasses, held neatly in place with straps with holes for their ears. Chano was sleeping beneath his master, but Alonzo and Blanca waddled over to lick the salt from their legs after they sat on their matching towels.

“Is the water cold?” he asked, after they’d settled with drinks in their hands.

“Not really.” Felipe opened his beer and took a long drink.

“It feels nice.”

“Cool—”

“—but not hot.”

“Lukewarm.”

“I might go out for a swim later.” Héctor’s head drooped and he lay back down, closing his eyes. “The more I come to the beach, the more I’m content just laying here and listening to the waves.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re old,” Ernesto grunted, still awake enough to hear what they were saying.

“Old?” Héctor chuckled. “Watch what you say, Mr. Thirty-Five.”

“Thirty-Four.”

“What, and three quarters? Are those streaks in your hair a fashion statement, _amigo_?” Ernesto scowled, one hand rubbing self-consciously over the silver working its way steadily into the black hair near his temples.

“Whatever.”

* * *

The souvenir shop was crowded with displays, but thankfully mostly empty of people. Oscar and Felipe nodded politely to the teenager sitting behind the counter, and received a curt nod in return before she went back to her phone screen. Coco immediately broke off to head to the back of the shop, her cat-shaped coin purse clutched tightly in one fist.

Imelda had allowed her to bring her spending money to the beach with them, with the stipulation that she couldn’t spend it all on sweets. Coco had readily agreed, and Imelda had offered to let her go alone to the promenade. The shop was one of the first on the strip, and well within sight distance. They could keep an eye on her while still letting her have some adult freedom. However she’d asked for the twins to come with her, “just in case I need help getting something from a high shelf”. Having nothing better to do and needing to walk off their lunches, they’d agreed.

“ _Mira._ ” Oscar pointed to a funny tee-shirt on the wall and they both laughed softly, biting their lips to keep Coco from hearing them. She’d just ask questions, and there was no way they were going to be the ones explaining _that_ to her.

“Or that one?” They laughed harder.

“C’mere.” Coco leaned into the aisle and beckoned them over. They wound their way past the postcard display, ducking around hanging faux fishing nets to reach a shelf of beautiful, _breakable_ goods.

“Be careful,” Oscar warned her needlessly. She turned, holding something in both hands.

“For Miss Maite, look.” It was a porcelain seagull, its wings painted with tiny blossoms.

“Oh yeah, she’d like that.” He elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Take a picture and send it to her.”

“Why me?” Felipe frowned, rubbing his ribcage. “You have her number.”

“ _You’re_ the one that’s always texting her.”

“Shh!” He eyed the cashier, still bent over her phone and ignoring them completely. “I am not!”

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

“Am not.”

“Okay, fine.” Oscar sneered. “She’s always texting _you_.”

“We—not _always_!” 

“Just take the picture!” Coco insisted, sounding more like her mother. Felipe colored, but obediently fished his phone out of his pocket. Coco held it up to her face, smiling like a bedazzled woman showing off the grand prize in a game show. He snapped a quick picture. “Now, tell her that _I_ found it,” she added.

“Okay, okay.” Felipe rolled his eyes, letting them both see the message before he sent it.

_Coco found this seagull in a souvenir shop at the beach and thought of you. She said to send you a picture of it._

“That’s good.” Coco put the seagull carefully back on the shelf, keeping it far away from the edge and turning it so that the bird could look out at the shop. Felipe’s phone immediately buzzed, and she made a grab for it. He was faster, hoisting it over her head with a huff. “Is that her?”

“Maybe.” Opening the message, he made a noise as Oscar peered over his shoulder nosily.

_CUTE!!!!! Tell her thanks for thinking about me! Hope you’re all having a blast!_ It was followed by a string of emojis that included, but was not limited to, heart eyes, a seashell, and a cute whale. 

“Does she always use that many emojis?”

“So what if she does?” He quickly locked the phone, shoving it into his pocket. “She’s expressive.”

“Defensive.”

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

“Oscar!”

When they left the shop, Coco was draped in an oversized, touristy beach towel, complete with a map of Mexico’s beaches on the back. She was content, having spent her money with enough left over for a chocolate milkshake. They returned to their umbrella, weaving around the families that had arrived after midday to enjoy a lazy afternoon.

Imelda raised her brows at Coco’s choice, but said nothing. Ernesto was still sleeping, having exchanged the chair for a towel after lunch. Imelda waited until they were settled before standing up, toeing her husband in the ribs.

“I’m going for a walk.” Héctor blinked up at her, shrugging. “A _walk_.” She inclined her head just enough to get the message across, clearing her throat and looking pointedly to where Coco was trying to force the thick milkshake through her straw. He was on his feet in a flash, ignoring his brothers-in-law as they made faces behind her back.

“I’ll go with you!” Imelda smirked, taking hold of his arm. He wiggled his brows, trying his patent sexy-smolder that, for the most part, was about as alluring as a common garden stone. To his credit it didn’t chase her away; she merely smiled, tugging him in the direction of the shoreline where the sand was easier to walk on.

“We’ll be back,” she said over her shoulder. “Behave, Coco.”

“Mmkay.” She was far more interested in her ice cream than her parents, the beach towel covering her like full bodied gown. The twins didn’t blame her for sitting so cozily; the sun was dipping lower in the sky, and the breeze from the water was starting to get chilly. Oscar shivered, rubbing his arms.

“Maybe we should have bought towels, too,” Felipe suggested.

“Maybe we should have brought our leather jackets.” Coco stared at them a moment, licking the milkshake off her straw. Her eyes slowly went from their goose-pimpled arms to her sleeping tío, the gears turning behind her brown irises.

“Tio Nesto… is going to get cold,” she said. “Maybe we should… cover him up.”

“With what?” they asked together, Oscar adding, “It’s not like—”

“— _we_ have anything, or we’d use it on ourselves.”

“It’s his fault for falling asleep.”

“That’s true.”

“Sand.” Coco put her milkshake on top of the cooler, standing up and letting the towel pool around her ankles. “It’s warm in the sand when you bury your feet in it. If we put sand on him, won’t he be warmer?”

“I—” They shared a glance, mouths curling impishly.

“Sí,” Felipe drawled, climbing to his feet. “Let’s cover him.”

“We can’t have getting _cold_ , can we?”

“Oh, no. Certainly not.” They slowly crept over to the snoozing man, dropping to their knees on either side of him. “Coco, you start on his feet,” Felipe said, keeping his voice low. “We’ll get his legs.”

“Try not to tickle him. We don’t want him to wake up, after all.” The dogs wandered over to see what they were doing, sniffing at the sand. Blanca began digging alongside Coco, knocking tufts of grass and dead seaweed into the air as she made a little Blanca-sized trench. Alonzo sniffed at Ernesto’s hair until Oscar shooed him away, Chano taking advantage of Coco’s leftover body heat by curling up inside her new towel.

They carefully packed sand tightly over his legs, working their way up to his waist. Oscar became the go-between, finding more sand when they began to run low and pushing it over for the others to use.

“Do you think he’s okay?” Coco asked, nose crinkling as she looked down at their work. “He looks a little… _dead_.” It was true; they’d buried him up to his chest, even packing a little ridge around his shoulders. He looked like a man lying in a sandy coffin, ready for his funeral.

“Maybe we can spruce it up.” Oscar looked at his brother. “Mermaid tail?”

“Mermaid tail.” Coco giggled, both hands covering her mouth. “Coco, find us two sticks. We’re going to get creative.”

By the time Imelda and Héctor returned, fingers laced and hair suspiciously mussed, they were putting the finishing touches on Ernesto’s new look. He was still snoring away, Oscar carefully showing Coco how to carve scales into damp top-sand while Felipe shaped the final fin. They’d gone traditional, shaping the sarcophagus of sand into two fins and a long, gorgeous tail.

“Look, Papá!” Coco said brightly, her face full of sweet charm. Héctor didn’t try to hide his smile, hand digging into his pants for his phone. He whipped it out and began trying to get the best angle, his eyes dancing with laughter even as he stayed silent.

“Héctor,” Imelda scolded, though her mouth was tight and twitching at the corners. She set her jaw, determined not to laugh.

“Let me have _some_ kind of blackmail on him, ‘Melda.” Héctor snapped another photo, looking pleased. “He’s too beautiful to resist.” Imelda stared down at Ernesto for a long time, ignoring Coco’s chatter about art and scales and warm sand. She looked to her brothers, standing with such _endearing_ false innocence, their hands behind their backs.

“You know what you did was wrong,” she said slowly, still working hard to keep the laughter from showing on her face. They glanced at each other with identical, remorseless expressions.

“We’ll repent…”

“On Sunday.”

“Maybe.”

“But… it was worth it, right?” They watched as Alonzo began licking Ernesto’s cheek, Héctor laughing under his breath as he captured the moment.

“ _Very_ worth it.”

* * *

 

“Are they asleep?”

Héctor turned to look behind him. The streetlights illuminated the van in segments, flashes of orangey-yellow fading to the dim blackish gray of poorly-lit highway. The twins were leaned against each other, arms crossed and breathing softly. Coco was curled up on the middle bench as much as the seatbelt would allow, all three dogs piled up in her lap and her new towel over her knees. Ernesto leaned against the window, still covered in bits of sand from the waist down. His anger had tired him out as well, and he was dead to the world.

“All down for the count, _mi amor_.” He reached over, grabbing her hand where it rested lightly on the console. “All in all, a pretty relaxing day.”

“It was nice to be out of the house, for once,” she agreed. “I didn’t think about work all day.”

“And I’ve got a few ideas for some new songs.” He grinned, squeezing her fingers. “ _La sirenita arenosa_ , what do you think?” Here in the dark, she allowed herself to bite back a genuine laugh.

“I think you need to work on your song titles, _músico_.”

“It’s no use. I can only think of the good titles when writing for you, _diosa_.” She rolled her eyes, leaning over to let him kiss her fingers.

“Get over yourself, Héctor.”

“You don’t believe me?” She glanced at him: covered in salt and sand, hair stuck at odd angles thanks to the seawater, dirty feet on the dash of her nice, clean car. Not that she wouldn’t have to vacuum every inch of it now thanks to the twin’s little prank. Dragging poor Coco along for the ride, letting her think she was doing Ernesto a favor instead of using their brains to tell her _no_.

“Ask me again tomorrow… when you _don’t_ look like a mad scientist.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT: unless you use custom work skins you can't show emojis on Ao3, apparently. Go to the Tumblr post for the full Maite effect, haha!


	8. The Voices: Ernesto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anon ask on Tumblr: I have a question about the biker AU. I remembered once that you said Ernesto comes into the Rivera house at night sometimes and sleeps on their couch. Is there any particular reason why? Does he not like sleeping at home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there are some darker themes hinted at ahead, including unintentional self-harm. This AU is rated T for a reason….

It was so quiet.

His shoes slapped against the pavement, solid rubber against concrete, muted. There was no other sound, the freeway far enough that it was little more than a vibrato, a thrumming resonance in his bones. Occasionally a stoplight hummed overhead, flickering in its death throes as it neared the end of its natural life.

He paused beneath one at the corner, waiting for the blinking crosswalk to change. Lifting his head to the stars, he heard the desperate _thunk_ of insects as they battered themselves to death against the white light of their false sun. One, a moth, plummeted to the sidewalk and lay beside his shoe, buzzing helplessly. Its wings were shredded by its fruitless efforts, and yet still it tried to join its brothers in their _danse macabre_. He stared at it until his stomach rolled, the urge to vomit rising against the back of his parched throat.

The crosswalk lit in shades of green and he hurried over the cracked asphalt, his hands deep in his pockets. He glanced behind him once, his eyes easily finding the twitching, frantic insect; something expanded behind his ribs, thick and viscous in his throat. He didn’t like it at all, choking at the base of his neck, pressing against his vocal chords. He was almost willing to puke in the street like a common drunkard, just as long as it would make that feeling go away.

Fucking Andrés! This was all his fault; that man might have been a decent agent, but he didn’t know when to shut the hell up! Why did he always insist on going out for drinks before he went back to Mexico City? Better yet, why did he come to Santa Cecelia at all? Their business could easily be handled over the phone; it wasn’t like their agent followed them on tour. No, he was just there to complain about small-town kitsch, and rub his own lavish lifestyle in their faces.

All night long, stupid stories that weren’t funny in the slightest. Women and wine, celebrities he knew ‘by association’, ridiculous sex spiels that—if he was being frank—made him incredibly sorry for the old man’s mistress. And even worse: he’d had to deal with it _on his_ _own_ , without Héctor there to politely change the subject. He didn’t even have a brat of his own, and still the PTA was somehow managing to make his life miserable.

Just hearing that braying laugh always made the bile rise in his throat, anger churning in his gut. It made him both furious and helpless, _cornered_ , something he couldn’t stand being. He’d sworn to himself to never feel this way again, the first day he was on his own. Chin held high, his entire world crammed into a shabby suitcase and ripped garbage sack, his own man. And yet there he’d been, head bent for the sake of his career yet again, the iron tang of blood heavy on his tongue and his nails digging into his thighs beneath the table until the flesh gave way. 

There’d been two choices. One: he could say his piece, drop the agent, and hope that monetization was enough to carry the bills until he could find someone else. That wasn’t a choice at all, no matter how hopeful his dreams could be. The bills were more than what little revenue he made from ads, and besides—he’d promised Héctor that they’d talk as a team before he made any hasty decisions.

The only other option went against his better judgment: keep the liquor flowing until he no longer had to fake laughter at the stale jokes. On a normal night, he stuck to beer alone and never went beyond six glasses. Tonight, however, he’d lost count after the fifth beer, not mentioning the other drinks mixed in-between. The world had slowly melted around him until he found himself chuckling every time Andrés paused, no longer listening while his agent brayed like the ass he was.

By the time Andrés fell asleep, slumped sideways on the table and starting to drool, he knew he’d had too many. He was no lightweight—and, if the whispered stories he’d heard as a kid were true, his mother hadn’t been either—but the bar had become a swaying mess of color and he was starting to feel strange. Fernando had promised to take care of Andrés—wake him up at last call, show him the hotel across the street, and remind him that his credit card was in his back pocket. Fernando… good guy, good man. A friend, if he could call anyone aside from Héctor his _amigo_.

The moth’s mournful buzz followed him as he crossed the street. He glanced behind him, easily finding the twitching, frantic insect as it lay beneath the light. His boot caught the curb and he stumbled, nearly faceplanting into the side of a brownstone duplex with darkened windows. Fucking Andrés, fucking PTA—if Héctor had been free none of this would have happened. He’d have been home by now, resting with his dogs and readying himself for the next week’s activities….

That damned moth! Couldn’t it just give up and die? Its audible struggle still echoed in his ears, even now that the light’s florescent hum had dissolved into the swirling darkness of the night. It crawled over his skin, prickling until it was all he could do to keep from clawing at his exposed forearms. He ran his palm over his forehead, wincing as it came back sticky with sweat. Being drunk always did this to him, opened the gate to things he kept under control when sober, thoughts and feelings and—

 _Don’t think about it_. He shook his head, swaying as the world shook with it. Scratch as he might, nothing would come of it but broken nails and raw skin. _Remember that._ None of it was real, it was all the alcohol playing with his mind, bringing back memories of other times, worse times, when he was small and couldn’t take care of himself, and the people that should have taken care of him didn’t, the bastards.

He’d tried it before, back when he had those white foster parents. _Well,_ a voice in the back of his head whispered icily, _they’d tried, at least. Too bad you were too far gone._ He could only remember their pale faces, all red and blotchy when they saw what he’d done, his blood staining the beautiful porcelain of their sink and his young, confused expression staring back at him from the mirror— _Who could blame you?_ the voice crooned, although it was nowhere near comforting. _You just wanted it to stop._

He shivered, trying to hurry as much as he could on his unsteady feet. _Damn Andrés to hell and back_ ; this was what he’d been trying to avoid! How many nights had he trembled beneath the blankets as a child, nearly smothering in the heat with his hands clapped over his ears to drown out these… _mockeries_?! Growing up hadn’t lessened their hold, and he couldn’t outrun them; those memories had followed him from Santa Cecelia. Drinking only gave them a louder voice, more sway over his emotions.

They lurked eternally in the back of his mind, voices from his past that rose at every opportune moment. Keeping them at bay was a matter of careful planning. There were _rules_ , rules he had to follow or else… he didn’t know what, and he didn’t want to find out. He couldn’t be too drunk, or too idle, or too quiet. They always, _always_ came when it was quiet.

He weaved slightly as he straggled towards his apartment, peering down the long stretch of empty road. The buildings were blackened monoliths on either side, wires crisscrossing over his head to turn the overcast sky into a patchwork of shadow and stars. A lone row of cars stood in single file down the opposite side of the street, but even they were barren and lifeless. He would have been happy to see a stray cat at this point, much less another human being. Surely… surely that moth wasn’t the only other sign of life he’d find tonight.

Where was everyone? He peered up at the blank, empty windows of one apartment complex, looking for any sign that someone else besides him existed in the world. It was late, sure, but it wasn’t _that_ late; the usual late-night crowd didn’t turn in until nearly dawn. What was going on? Was it just his imagination? Was it later than he thought? His fingers closed around the phone in his pocket, wanting to check the time and yet afraid to be the lone beacon of light on the street.

The entire street ought to have been lit up from crosswalk to crosswalk, doors open and curtains raised. Where were the flickering TV signals, spilling from open entryways and bouncing off the roughened plaster walls? Where were the howling street dogs, the distant gunshots, the raucous laughter of teenage punks as they loitered in the mouths of alleys? Where were the car alarms, sudden and sharp in the night, and the answering shouts from their owners? The lustful groans from open windows, the canned laughter of sitcoms, the insistent babble of a hundred balcony conversations?

Why was it so fucking _quiet_?!

He felt, rather than heard, something stir behind him in the darkness. It was the sign he’d been looking for, but—rather than relief, some age old sense of self-preservation unfurled deep within his chest, from a time so long ago he could barely remember it. The thing loomed over him in the murky gloom, lips curled, breath fetid, close enough to touch. The hair on his nape rose, tingling and alert; a chill ran down his spine as smooth as butter as an exhale, too soft to hear, stirred his sweat-drenched locks.  

It was the quiet.

He staggered, but didn’t dare pause for an instant. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that he was now prey, hunted in the darkness by something he couldn’t dream of conquering. People would call him crazy if he tried to explain, if he attempted to bring attention to the dark truth that only he knew—silence was _alive_. It was dark and twisted, a being that would devour him to the core if he slowed his pace. He wasn’t safe in the open, _anywhere_ , unless he could find someplace with noise.

His apartment was the first choice, and adequate enough. He knew how to make it safe: door locked, windows curtained, every light blazing and the TV turned as loud as the neighbors would tolerate. There, curled on the sofa with his three _angelitos_ , their little puffing snores in his ears, he was protected. The voices couldn’t get to him as long as there was enough background noise to smother their wicked words.

_O eso piensas._

_Not him, anything but **him**_ — His bowels froze, stomach clenching so violently that he gagged aloud. He very nearly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, limbs locked and eyes screwed shut. _If I can’t see him, he can’t see me_ — _no!_ He shook himself off before fully petrifying, stumbling and nearly falling into a trash can. He couldn’t stop, not for anything; if the quiet managed to catch him, it would all be over. And that childish logic had never helped him anyway, no matter how tightly his shut his eyes. Monsters could see in the dark.

He could feel it behind him as he struggled his way uphill; it _toyed_ with him, always two steps behind, strolling leisurely while he tried his best to keep upright. He could hear the voices, so _many_ babbling voices trapped within in its gnarled limbs. It was filled to the brim with things he didn’t want to hear, the warped murmurs that reminded him of who he was, that could sound like anyone… even himself.

That thing knew that he’d overindulged tonight. He’d swapped the pain of dealing with his agent for the untold horrors of this beast—a shapeless thing that would gladly suck the marrow from his bones if he gave it the opportunity. They both knew that no apartment would protect him, no loud TV or breathing dogs would be enough to stave off the pain it had in store for him.

_Pathetic, stupid—did you think you could run home and hide beneath the covers, niñito? Did you honestly think a few improvised **nightlights** would be enough to keep us at bay? You’re as useless as ever. A waste of good oxygen. _

“I have to go home.” _That_ was his voice, he reminded himself firmly. That was his real voice— not those other voices, the ones that plucked ruthlessly at everything inside of him until it wobbled, unsteady, ready to collapse. The thought didn’t stick, sloshing around with the liquor in his brain until he stumbled again, banging his knee against the side of a dumpster. He bit back a curse, sucking in a breath as the pain ebbed up his spine.

_Hurts, doesn’t it? Being alive._

_Might as well give that up._

_Why are you fighting so hard? Just lie down._

_It’s not like anyone will miss you—_

_I said no!_ He forced his legs to work, jaw clenched against the throbbing ache in his leg. He blinked, focusing on the sidewalk until he could ignore the swimming, spinning edges of the world, one hand outstretched to brush along the sides of the buildings as he turned a corner instead of continuing straight.

_Oh, giving up already?_

_What a wimp!_

_What’d you expect? He’s a screw-up; of course he threw in the towel._

_Why’d you even accept one like this? He’s fucked up, call the agent and send him back—_

He grit his teeth, shoulders hunched as he tried to ignore the voices echoing in the alley behind him. Or maybe they were just echoing in his head—it was hard to tell, the way it was swimming. He turned another corner, heading back in the direction of the bar and refusing to listen to the cruel, punishing laughter when the voices caught wind of his plan.

He couldn’t risk going home now, not while he was still drunk and in pain. He didn’t trust himself enough to stay put on the sofa, not when they were grating against the back of his neck, their putrid breath curling around him like cigarette smoke. If they were loud enough he was liable to make some stupid mistake, with consequences beyond what he was willing to handle.

_Giving up without a fight._

_What a little bitch!_

Booze made things worse, he wasn’t willing to ruin his voice with smokes, and there wasn’t anyplace in Santa Cecelia to find something harder than marijuana—not that he was keen to play Russian Roulette with those, either. Women could sometimes take his mind off things, but he’d exhausted his local supply of one-night stands. There might have been some he’d considered seeing more than once—even Luchi, if he could just get her to give in and say yes to a fun night—but he’d be damned before making a drunken fool of himself at the minimart.

He needed to be near Héctor. In the old days, when they lived like brothers in his (much smaller) apartment, Héctor was the one to talk to him when things got too quiet. His _amigo_ never shut up as it was, but it was much better to be able to hear another human voice when he was restlessly pacing. Héctor always reminded him that those voices weren’t real, and that their ideas were often terrible. Things he could normally do on his own, but tonight….

No, it was better to not take any risks. This was important, _he_ was important.

_Important? Hah! What’s so special about you?_

_Like anyone cares about you; if they did, you wouldn’t have had to come back so often._

_Even H_ _é_ _ctor left you in the end, didn’t he? Got hitched and everything. Some brother._

_Some amigo._

“I don’t have time to listen,” he whispered to the voices, to himself. It made him feel better, even though his tongue slurred the words. “I’ve got things to do,” he added, knowing full well that was talking to himself and probably looked fully insane. He had to make it home—eventually. And not only for himself, either; there were still things he had to do, things he’d never be able to if the quiet caught him and choked him with its long, bony fingers.  

His babies were the first and foremost in his mind. He could leave them alone for a night without worry; they had the necessities of life. There was food and water in the kitchen, puppy pads in the bathroom, and plenty of toys scattered around to amuse themselves with. But they were the first reason he couldn’t let the quiet catch him.

What would become of them if Papá never made it home? They already made it hard enough to leave, whining and scratching at the door as he locked it behind him. They loved outings, Blanca especially, and always begged to come along if they saw him slipping on his shoes. If it was within his power, they went where he went. But the bar only allowed service animals, and the last thing he’d needed was some uncouth drunk—Andrés, probably—spilling beer all over his _angelita preciosa_. 

He told them he’d be back. He’d promised, in fact, nearly cooing through the door as he double-checked the lock. _I’ll be home later_ : that’s what he said, and that’s what he meant. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, and he certainly didn’t break promises once he made them. He wasn’t like _some people_ , people who didn’t deserve names, who never meant it once when they said that they would remember your birthday, or that they’d be sure to come and visit on the holidays. Those people were worse than scum, breaking their word year after year _after year after_ —

_Just like her in everything but looks, right?_

_Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, looks like. Out of the tree and into the sewers._

And there was the video room! The video room, he had to finish rearranging it before Monday. He had a month’s worth of videos to film—this month had five weeks, which meant one more than usual. And the weekly vlogs on top of that, plus he still needed to go over the footage from their last tour and edit it, that would make a few videos…. It was a lot of work, all in the name of pleasing his beautiful fans. His _familia_ would be heartbroken if he started skipping videos without warning, after all.

  _Oh, who would care? Who watches your crap anyway?_

 _A million people,_ he couldn’t help but snap, knowing all the while that trying to argue only fed their ire. He’d finally reached that long-coveted milestone, one million subscribers. One million people the world over, a family that spanned continents; the song Héctor had written just for him, so many years ago, was now a reality.

They’d sent him a golden plaque in the mail, engraved and polished; the mere sight of it, the solid weight in his hands, the bursting pride in his own accomplishment… he’d never before felt such a potent mixture of joy and bitterness, heavy on his tongue. A step beyond bittersweet, but not quite vengeful.

 _If that bitch was still kicking,_ he’d thought as he stared at his warped reflection in the gold-embossed cover, _I’d find her, just to rub it in her stupid face. Who’s unlovable now, huh? What did she know? I don’t care if she didn’t love me, there are one million people out there who love me now! She was wrong, she didn’t know anything! I am Ernesto de la Cruz, the greatest musician of all time, and—_

_Some family!_

_A million people, so what? You couldn’t name ten of them, even if there was a gun stuck to your head._

_How can **they** love **you**? They don’t even know you. _

_And if they did know you, they **really** wouldn’t love you—_

He hunched his shoulders, trying to let the words bounce harmlessly off his spine rather than take hold in his breast. He knew from experience that the worst thing to do was to show how much something hurt. If he cried out in pain, or tried to seek comfort, well—he deserved to be ridiculed. He was a man, after all! Men were strong, tough, able to withstand anything without batting an eye.

It seemed an eternity before the thick forest of apartments and _misceláneas_ became a field of squat houses with defined property lines. The asphalt became cobblestone as he transitioned into the heart of town, stumbling his way towards the _zapatería_. The houses were clearly marked, separated by fences and parked cars. A few outside lights added their light to the corner streetlamps, the moon carefully peeking from behind a low-hanging cloud to survey the sleeping town.

The shoe sign creaked mournfully in the breeze, rusty chains swinging slowly as if heralding his arrival. The house was dark, a gaping hole where their outside light ought to have been. Imelda’s weird brothers had taken it down years ago; according to Héctor there was some kind of weird, drawn-out standoff between the three siblings about who would replace it.

He fumbled in the dark for his keys, squinting in the faint moonlight as his alcohol-impaired fingers clumsily separated the clinking metal. Héctor had given him a house key years ago, when he first returned to Santa Cecelia; despite making it on his own for a few years, that extended tour had ended up an overwhelming failure in the end. He’d been out of money and very nearly stranded, thanks to an ill-timed casino visit. If Héctor hadn’t convinced Imelda to put him up in the hotel, who knows where he would have ended up?

_In the gutter where you belong, you two-bit fraud._

_You call yourself a musician, but without H_ _é_ _ctor’s songs you’re nothing but a trained monkey onstage._

_That’s not true._ It was a 50/50 act: Héctor’s songs were fine on their own, but it was only combined with his stage persona that they really _shone_. And, as much as he hated that part of his success rode on Héctor’s skills as a songwriter, he had to admit that it was always more fun when they toured as a team. Héctor wouldn’t leave more than twice a year, unless it was a local gig, but—even with the stress of travelling, those were his favorite times of the year. Just him, his best friend, his dogs, the open road, a trail of music winding its way across the country for six whole weeks….

 _Damnit, now I’m getting all emotional or something._ He scowled down at his keys, fingertips carefully searching for the R he’d scratched into Héctor’s house key. It was only supposed to be used in emergencies, but—as he’d told Imelda time and time again—everyone’s definition of emergency was different. _Here_! He fumbled with the door, leaning heavily against the solid wood as he tried to remember which way it unlocked, only to nearly break his neck when it swung open unexpectedly.

Stepping into the dark living room, he quietly shut the door behind him and stood with bated breath, listening. This wasn’t the first time he’d come to the Rivera house when the voices were too loud, and a part of him knew that wouldn’t be the last, no matter how much he always said _never again_ afterwards. He’d hoped that Héctor would still be awake, but he could already hear the deafening snores from the back of the house that suggested otherwise. For a man with a large nose, Héctor definitely used every square inch of it when sleeping.

He walked into the kitchen, pausing at the entryway with his ear cocked towards the bedrooms. From the sound of things, the entire house was abed; there were no lights coming from beneath the closed doors, and he could hear softer breathing hidden beneath Héctor’s loud gasps of air. Gentler snores, quiet sighs, a grumbling murmur—he’d learned early on that the twins talked in their sleep.  

He didn’t bother trying to go down the hall. He never went to the bedrooms, if he could help it; something inside him was unsettled at the thought of entering that last, most intimate family space. It was better to stay confined as far as the bathroom, with most of his time spent in the living area or the workshop.

In any case, waking Héctor was easier said than done. He’d have better luck carrying water in a sieve. Nothing woke that guy up; Héctor would miss the end of the world if he was taking a nap when it happened. Besides, the last thing he wanted was Imelda opening her eyes to see a shadow that smelled like a bar crouched over her bed in the middle of the night. He was going to have a headache tomorrow morning as it was; he didn’t need a shoe imprint against his skull helping things along. That woman probably slept with a _chancla_ beneath her pillow.  

Instead he acted on instinct, walking to the fridge and pulling out a beer. He stood for a moment in the dark kitchen, staring at the flashing green digits on the stove: three a.m., much later than he’d originally thought. Had he really been stumbling around town that long, or had Andrés kept him that late at the bar? _That damn fool, no wonder I feel this shitty…._

The beer froze his palm, burning icy hot against the callouses on his fingers. He didn’t need another beer. He didn’t really _want_ another beer. But that was what he did, every time he came to Héctor’s house. Go inside, grab a beer. To break that ritual would be to invite something worse that the quiet that still lingered, trying to expand into the spaces not occupied by snoring and shifting blankets.

Not knowing what to do with the drink, he carried it back into the living room and placed it blindly on the end table. Turning to the coffee table, he located it one corner with his leg and began groping amidst the magazines and old newspapers for the remote control. It wasn’t there, and he turned with a huff to the end table; he nearly knocked the lamp off the edge, growing careless in his impatience. He finally found it, wedged between the second and middle cushions of the sofa.

Screwing his eyes shut in advance, he turned on the TV and counted to three before hitting the mute button. There was no sound from the speakers—he’d mastered the art of turning it on in the dead of night years ago—but the old CRT screen hummed with static from the film of dust coating its screen. He welcomed the annoying buzz with open arms; it was only another weapon to drive back the voices, now angry at being thwarted.

He slipped off his shoes, kicking them under the coffee table before collapsing on his side. His cheek scratched against the cushion, knees bowed up until they jutted over the edge, but he no longer cared. It was the most comfortable thing in the world right now, and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh as he began flipping through the channels.

There was never anything of interest on this early in the morning, but that didn’t matter to him: the TV wasn’t on so he could watch it. It was just another habit, something to focus on as he slipped off into a stupor. He settled on a rerun of the nightly sports recap, snorting as the announcer flapped about; without sound, he looked like a gaping fish as he screamed about the upcoming championship games. His grip relaxed as he settled into the cushion, the remote falling from his hand to the rug with a muffled _clunk_.

The voices babbled furiously, but they held no power here. They’d hesitated, faltering when faced with a house full of people, of family, of _sound_. That was all he’d needed to take back the upper hand, vanquishing their clutch on him… for the moment, in any case. He could grab just enough rest to get his feet under him, and then be back home before anyone was the wiser. He didn’t even have to sleep; he could just lay here until he was sober, watching sports and listening to… to… to himself yawning.

A bell jingled and he felt the sofa jolt, followed by a soft, questioning trill. He glanced over his shoulder at the feline shadow, tail stiff as a flagpole as it stalked along the cushions to regard him. The cat, then. Imelda’s little pet, as precious to her as her own child. It crouched over his head, green eyes flashing in the light of a commercial. It seemed to scrutinize him, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth.

 _Never forget who found you first_ , he thought absently, reaching up to let it sniff his hand. If it hadn’t been for him, Héctor would have never found that little mewling ball of fluff stowed beneath that dumpster. That cat owed him her cushy life, and she’d better be grateful for it. As if hearing his thoughts, it let out another trill and quickly swiped its chin along the extended fingers before settling down into a loaf.

He rubbed his nose, turning back to the TV and paying it no mind. He and that cat had an agreement, understanding more about each other than Imelda would like to admit. They were both aloof, creatures that thrived on attention but didn’t enjoy being touched often. They were perfectly capable of coexisting in the same space as indifferent acquaintances.

Héctor’s snores echoed in his ears. The fridge kicked on with a mechanical hum, the kitchen clock chiming fifteen minutes past the hour. The sports announcer gesticulated, arguing with his cohost about some kind of penalty kick in the earlier game. The cat began to purr, shaking the entire sofa with her rumbling vibrations as she kneaded the cushion.

It wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes, just a moment. Just long enough to take a breath… two breaths… three….

* * *

 

He woke up slowly, sleep crusting at the corners of his eyes and sticky drool on his chin. He stared up at the popcorn ceiling through his lashes, hearing classical music and… explosions. The cat’s tail flicked in and out of his direct sight, a slow metronome punctuating the sizzling of frying bacon.

He turned his head just enough to see the TV; he thought he’d been watching sports the night before, but now the Coyote chased the Road Runner fruitlessly through the desert. He watched it unroll an entire road like a hunk of sod, only to fall off a cliff with a perturbed, pity-inspiring expression. There was a muffled giggle, a gasping snort that tried to be quiet, and he realized that he wasn’t alone.

 _Of course not._ He could feel Héctor’s brat on the other end of the couch, where she’d managed to drape his knees over her lap. He still hadn’t figured out how she could do it without waking him up; he wasn’t a light sleeper, but he had a sixth sense when it came to people touching him while he was trying to take a nap. Not that he’d meant to fall asleep in the first place… he’d just been resting his eyes, that was all.

 _Fucking… my head._ He closed his eyes again, his temples pounding and mouth dry as the cartoon desert on TV. Coco hadn’t noticed he was awake, and with any luck she _wouldn’t_ notice. He wasn’t in the mood for her chipper greetings, or the questions about where he’d been, when did he get here, what he was going to be doing, etc. etc. etc. That kid was a well of pointless chatter, just like her father.

He lay quietly, ruminating as his stomach churned from the smell of breakfast in the other room. If he’d drank as much as he remembered drinking the night before, he’d be dry heaving before too long. Maybe if he could get some coffee in him first; the others would have noticed his presence by now, and Héctor would know to get a pot started for him. He thought he could hear it percolating in the kitchen, beneath the snap of bacon grease and clicking rhythm of the toaster.  

Héctor hummed as he passed by the entryway, his voice a low murmur against the sounds of breakfast. Imelda answered pertly, their laughter tumbling together in a bright chorus. The roadrunner beeped, Coco giggled, the toaster popped. The motorbike roared to life in the backyard, only to sputter off into silence, choked, replaced by cursing. Imelda shouted, Héctor chuckled.

He lay quiet, his breathing even, and listened to the morning’s noise.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: It’s hinted at more in the series, but Héctor and Ernesto both come from the foster system; they actually met each other when they became “foster brothers” for a short period of time between families. The experience left them both broken in different ways… it’s about as angsty as I’m able to get, I guess.


	9. The Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family heirlooms aren't always kept for practical purposes... but that doesn't mean they can't be fixed.

“Ay, _mijo_!” Mamá clucked under her breath, her face screwed in concentration. “Hold still!” 

Oscar muffled a whimper behind clenched teeth, his jaw aching with the effort of keeping his mouth clamped shut. Every scrape of the comb dug into the sensitive skin of his scalp, yanking out hair by the roots. Icy water dripped uncomfortably down the back of his neck, pooling beneath the starched, bleached collar of his new shirt. The comb caught a snag, slipping; its sharp teeth bit into the tender shell of his ear, ripping at the skin. He instinctively flinched away from the pain, biting back a yelp.

“Ow!” Mamá doubled her grip on his shoulder, knuckles pale as she braced his thin frame against her stomach. Impatience tugged the corners of her mouth into a thin line, lips pressed tight. Her shrewd eyes gleamed with determination, crinkling at the corners as she lifted the comb once more.

“Hold still!” she repeated, ignoring the fact that her arm anchored him against the comb’s relentless pull. He couldn’t move, not unless he managed to wiggle his way out of the near headlock she had him in. “Your hair is as bad as your Tío Jaime’s,” she swore, pulling the skin of his forehead taunt with every harsh tug. “I’d like to know just _who_ gave you such stubborn cowlicks….” 

Any resentment Oscar had towards that particular ancestor was overridden by a sense of belated sympathy. Whoever it was, their mother had probably subjected them to the same torture, however many decades ago. _Besides,_ he thought miserably, _it’s not like any of us asked for the wrong kind of hair._ He would have traded nearly anything to have hair that didn’t test the limits of his mother’s patience.

“Mamá!” Imelda’s voice echoed above them; he could see her shadow, leaning over the stairwell to shout into the foyer below. “I can’t find my curling iron!”

“What?!” Mamá released him in shock, the comb nearly slipping from her fingers. Oscar scrambled towards the kitchen table, putting as much space as possible between his head and that awful torture instrument. “Are you not ready yet!?”

“I—” It sounded like a herd of stampeding rhinos as she thundered down the stairs, sliding to a stop on stockinged feet at the threshold. She was mostly ready, her skin glowing against the dark shade of her favorite dress. Clumps of mascara made her eyelashes look as long as her precious _novio’s_ , but her hair still hung over her shoulders in frizzed, static-filled curls. “My hair’s all I’ve got to do,” she said breathlessly. “Where’s my curling iron?”  

“Wherever you left it!” Mamá exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “You don’t have time to look for it now, anyway! If we don’t leave in ten minutes we’re going to be late.” She turned to Oscar, her mouth pursing. “Where’s your brother? _Felipe!_ ” she called without waiting for an answer, her voice ringing in the small kitchen. “Felipe, get in here! Now!”

“Mamá!” Imelda implored, drumming her fingers against the doorframe. “I can’t show up looking like this!” Felipe ducked under her arm, sidling into the kitchen only to stop short at the sight of the comb. Mamá grabbed him up before he could escape, her free hand reaching for the faucet.

“Oh, fine!” Mamá shooed her, flicking water from the comb before turning to Felipe’s uncombed hair. “Just go upstairs and pick out one of my ribbons. No one’s going to know if we braid it. I’ll be up there in a minute.”

“Ouch!” Felipe squirmed in her arms, blinking against the water running into his eyes. “Mamá, that _hurts_!”

“Then hold still!” Mamá sucked in a breath, nostrils flaring. “ _Señor_ ,” she muttered aloud, shaking her head as she began working on a fresh set of untamable curls. “ _Dame fuerzas_.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, breast heaving as she sighed before strong-arming his twin’s hair into the same slicked-down hairstyle.  

“ _Mamá_!”

“I’m coming!” Mamá huffed, releasing Felipe and shaking the remainder of the water from the comb. He stumbled back against the stove, his ears and face flushed from the assault on his hair. They glanced at each other, their eyes mirroring the same thoughts: _waste of time_. Water wasn’t near enough to keep their hair down; the first sign of humidity, the first drop of sweat, and it would all be over. But Mamá insisted anyway, and they had a better chance of moving a mountain than they did of stopping her.

“Now,” she added, in a different voice entirely. “We are leaving in _five minutes_ ,” she announced, pointing the comb at each of them in turn, “and neither of you are to move _one_ _muscle_ until then.” Her eyes blazed with hellfire, promising something worse than a _chancla_ if they were to disobey. 

“But—”

“Ah! Hmm! No!” she snapped, raising the comb—and her voice—higher each time one of them tried to speak. “Not. A. Muscle. Do not go up to your room, do not go outside, do not go into the parlor: I don’t even want you to use the toilet. Do not leave this kitchen until it’s time to go. You two,” she announced with a broad smile, her voice softening into a syrupy sweetness, “look like my sweet _angelitos_.” She pinched their cheeks, one in each hand, and squeezed until the blood rushed to their faces. “And you will _stay_ looking like that. ¿ _Me entienden_?”

“… _Sí_ , Mamá.” Their heads drooped, shoulders slumping in disappointment. “We understand.” She beamed, giving their cheeks one last pinch before bustling up the stairs in search of her daughter. Felipe shuffled to the kitchen table, climbing into Imelda’s chair before resting his cheek against the wood with a sigh.

“It’s hot,” he pouted, his glasses sitting askew on his nose. The kitchen was always warm after breakfast, the midmorning sun shining in through open curtains. However, along with their dark slacks and starched shirts, it was quickly becoming unbearably stuffy. Even the cold water did little to help, evaporating quickly in the heat.

Oscar went to the back door, stretching onto his tiptoes to see out of the small window. It was a small triumph; just last month neither he nor his twin had been able to see out of the window at all, no matter how hard they stretched. His nose barely cleared the lower casement, but Abuelita insisted that they were shooting up like beanstalks. He had high hopes that by the time they were nine, they’d be able to look out without having to balance on the balls of their feet. That only left four months to grow, but with any luck they’d achieve it.

The backyard was quiet, neatly fenced in by the weathered slats Papá had built long before they were born. There was a stiff breeze shaking the pine tree, but the tomato vines in the garden below barely fluttered on their wooden beams. Mamá’s rose trellis was in full bloom, bees buzzing lazily around open petals turned to the sun. The cloudless sky was a fierce blue, offering no visible relief from the heat. The dust swirled in low eddies over the uneven earth, catching in the corners of the fence and spinning wildly with nowhere else to go.

Compared to the stifling silence of the dimly lit kitchen, the backyard was a forbidden Eden. Felipe sniffed behind him, scratching absently at a groove in the table. As he watched, Imelda’s chicken flapped onto the patio and began pecking at the stone, sifting through grit with her sharp beak. Every peck, every scratch rolled up and down his spine until he was sure he could bear it no longer. He had to go outside, no matter what Mamá said.

“Felipe.” The scratching stopped, and he heard the chair squeak as it was pushed back along the linoleum. In a moment his brother was at his side, hands pressing into the doorframe as he leaned up to look out. “Let’s go onto the patio,” he suggested, knowing all the while that Felipe would decline. Between the two of them, Felipe was always more apt to obey when told to do something. If not for him, he would have stayed motionless at the table until Mamá came back downstairs.

“We can’t go outside,” Felipe replied sensibly, his neck craned as he watched Gallinita hunt for insects between the sunbaked stones. “Mamá said to stay in the kitchen.”

“The patio is a part of the kitchen. Sort of,” he amended, when Felipe frowned. “After all, the garden’s out there, and the herbs.”

“Mamá grinds corn out there,” Felipe agreed slowly, checking over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being watched. “And we _do_ eat in the backyard, at least on special occasions.”

“Right.” They both stared at the doorknob, silent in their temptation. Despite the excuses they could make, the end result wouldn’t change; they knew exactly what Mamá had meant. If they went outside—if they even opened the door—they’d be choosing disobedience. That alone should have been enough. If they were _angelitos_ , they wouldn’t defy a direct order from their parent. It was a commandment, after all: _Honrarás a tu padre y a tu madre_.

And yet…. His fingers itched to just _touch_ the doorknob. Touching didn’t mean anything; it was a thought, a mere notion. Touching the door didn’t mean they’d automatically go outside, right? Mamá didn’t say that they couldn’t open the door, after all. She’d only said that they couldn’t leave the kitchen.

His eyes met Felipe’s. One word from him would make Oscar stop, but he could tell that they were thinking the same thing. It wasn’t surprising in the slightest; they were twins, after all. They’d always been able to tell the other’s thoughts as easily as they could their own. There were even times that they didn’t have to say a word, entire conversations passing between them with little more than subtle glances and expressions.

Felipe slowly rested his hand on the doorknob; he felt his fingers tingle with phantom sensation, as if the cold metal was against _his_ palm instead. They shared one smirk, secure in their own—and each other’s—disobedience. Even as he told himself they wouldn’t go outside, a small part of him knew it to be a lie. If the door was open they’d go onto the patio, and if they were on the patio they’d go into the backyard.

“¡ _Niños_!”

There wasn’t even time to feign innocence, the deep voice booming through the kitchen with enough force that the dishes ought to have rattled in the china cabinet. Felipe jerked his hand from the doorknob, his fingers clenching as if burned. A chill ran down Oscar’s spine, icy-hot fear sending his heart into his throat. His pulse hammered wildly agaisnt his ribcage as the unmistakable shadow of their father loomed against the far wall.

They turned as one, pressing their spines against the door as they stood shoulder to shoulder. There was no hiding; Papá stood in the threshold, his burly arms crossed and dark eyes severe beneath his square brow. His mouth, half-hidden beneath his beard, twisted in a harsh frown as he glared at them across the kitchen. The air in the room grew thick, the only sound a crisp _plink, plink_ where Mamá had been hasty with the faucet. 

Papá entered the kitchen, the weight of his step muffling any errant squeak from his patent leather dress shoes. He pulled his chair from the table, sinking down into it with a slow exhale; the wood groaned beneath him, creaking as he settled down to regard them coolly. They froze as he lifted a hand, pointing to the empty space in front of his knees with a voice like a death knell.

“Come here.”  Gulping, they crept across the kitchen on shaking legs, dread forming a pit in their stomachs. There was no denying that they were in for it now; they might have gotten away with a good many misdeeds, but lying and disobedience were the two things Papá did not tolerate.

Even seated, Papá was a man of size. Taller and broader than most men in Santa Cecelia, years of hardened muscle had softened only at the edges; he was built like a bear, with a massive chest and sturdy, stocky limbs. In his youth he’d been a formidable strongman, able to wrestle an ox and win without being gored once. The men had called him _Buey_ , a name which stuck until even his youngest employees used the title with the utmost respect.

Like an ox he was hardworking, still able to pull his weight in the stone yard without falling behind the younger, fresher men that worked the quarry. It was only lately that he had to slow down his production, thanks to the thick, wet cough that stole breath from his lungs and left him bent over in clear pain. But never once did he complain, even when he was brought to his knees and had to be carried by his own team to the hospital, gasping for air.

It was hard to read his expressions beneath the thick, wiry tangle of his beard; his eyes were stern, always, and unyielding to anyone who dared to meet him head-on. But he could also be gentle, even kind, and those that earned his respect found him to be loyal and steadfast. His voice boomed like thunder, even when hoarse from the mess in his lungs, and especially when he caught his children doing something naughty.

They stood trembling before him, still pressed together as though they were one giant mass instead of two little boys. They’d been caught in the act, and… now what? The wedding would only be a temporary boon, something that would stave off the inevitable punishment looming over their heads. Unless, of course, Papá thought he had time to punish them before Mamá finished braiding Imelda’s hair.

“Well.” Papá crossed his arms, mustache fluttering with every hot breath he let out through his nose. His eyes flashed down at them, his face unreadable. They had no way of knowing what he was thinking, what he had in store. He took in a deep breath, chest expanding until Oscar was sure he either had to exhale, or burst. “Did your mamá tell you to stay in the kitchen?” he asked softly, looking from one face to another without changing his expression. There was a lump in Oscar’s throat, the words catching until he nearly choked on them; somehow he spoke up, his voice joining Felipe’s in a mumbled monotone.

“ _Sí_.”

“And so… what were you doing just then?” His tone was light, almost disbelieving; it was as if he didn’t think his own sons were capable of such blatant wrongdoing. He leaned forward, waiting for an answer with raised brows. Somehow, he managed to look them both in the eye at once.

“We—erm—” The impulse to lie, to make up some kind of excuse, burned in his stomach. Even if it would only lessen the charge, or provide some outlet to get away with what they’d been about to do…. He could say, perhaps, that they really had only been meaning to open the door. To say that the thought of going onto the patio never crossed their minds. They’d only wanted to feel the breeze in their faces, right? He would believe that, wouldn’t he?

Oscar looked through his lashes at Felipe, whose eyes swam with the beginning of tears. A traitorous stab caught him in the ribs, twisting like a dull knife behind his breastbone. Felipe had protested, after all; he’d been afraid of this very thing. Oscar had—as he’d done before—been the one to convince him to give into temptation. Now Felipe was in just as much trouble, for something he’d been reluctant to do in the first place.

“We were… we were going outside,” he admitted, looking down at his shoes. He’d never been much of a good liar, anyway. Felipe nodded in agreement, his lips pressed tightly together.

“I see.” Papá stared at them, silent, until they squirmed in place.

“I’m sorry.” Felipe’s hands fisted at his sides, cheeks stained a guilty red.

“I’m sorry, too.” Oscar meant every word, even if they hadn’t actually _done_ anything. It was more a factor of timing; they hadn’t had the time to do anything, or they would’ve. And Papá considered the thought of wrongdoing just as bad as the act itself. They both knew it.

“You shouldn’t apologize to me.” Papá let out a sigh of his own. He scooped them up before they could blink and sat them in his lap, Oscar on the left knee and Felipe on the right. They froze, startled, before relaxing against the natural give of his chest. Papá spoke again, his voice rumbling like thunder behind his ribs. “You will apologize to your mamá after the wedding.” His tone held no room for argument—not that they had anything to say.

“ _Sí_ , Papá.”

“And you will never think of disobeying her again. _Ever._ Do I make myself clear?” They nodded quickly, humility burning in their cheeks. “Good.” He hummed under his breath, muffling a cough in his fist; the sound echoed through his chest, vibrating against them through the prickling heat of his polyester suit.

Even with the sweat pooling under their arms, neither boy gave a single thought to dismounting from their respective leg. It wasn’t often that they were the center of their father’s attention, good or bad. He was a busy man, in charge of his own company and a household at that. Besides, they were almost too big to be sitting on his lap; long gone were the days where he could measure their heads with his palms, declaring with a booming laugh that they were exactly the same. They couldn’t help but soak in the rare moment, basking in the sort of attention boys instinctively crave from their patriarchs.

“Now.” Papá’s voice smoothed, melting from a rough growl into something more amicable. He reached deep into his coat pocket, eyeing the two of them before pulling out Bisabuelo’s pocket watch. Felipe sucked in a quiet breath, his eyes going wide behind his glasses; Oscar felt his own lungs stop working at the sight of the gilded case, beautiful even in its plainness. Papá’s eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling as he held the watch in his palm between them.

The pocket watch was an antique, handed down from Abuelito Osvaldo’s own father. Normally he kept it safe in a special cloth, wrapped neatly in the bottom drawer of Mamá’s jewelry cabinet. He only wore it on Sundays and special occasions, along with a golden watch chain that hung freely from his coat pocket. They weren’t allowed to touch it without permission or adult supervision; it was too valuable of an heirloom to be left to the care of two rambunctious boys.

Now, Felipe carefully took the watch in both hands, turning it so that the gold case caught the light from the old pendant lamp over the kitchen table. On the front cover, a plain design of intertwined vines formed a circle just within the sealed edges of the golden plate. The back had an identical circle, but seated in the center of the case was a stamped image of morning glories, their petals unfurled and leaves glittering in tiny raised lines.

“How old is that watch, Papá?” Oscar asked, watching his twin as he fumbled with the heavy clasp. Some strength was required to open the old case; Felipe’s brows knitted in concentration, but it wasn’t until he pressed both thumbs as hard as he could on the spring that the clasp popped open. The face was plain, white painted metal that served for function, not flair. The Roman numerals decorating the edges were stylized into hair-thin lines.

“A hundred years. Maybe a little more.” Papá watched as they bent over the face, their fingers hovering over the thin numbers. “Papá Benito—Abuelito’s father—bought it in the United States after the war. It was his most expensive possession. Back then, it was brand new.”

“Wow….” Felipe handed the watch to him; Oscar held it in his palm the way Papá had, feeling its solid weight. Once, Papá had taken off the back cover to clean it, and showed them how a watch was actually a tiny machine that, when wound, made the hands move around the face. The complexity of it made their heads spin at the time, but neither he nor Felipe could forget the sight of those tiny gears, the little springs and levers that made the magic of time a reality. He thought he could feel the individual weight of those metal bits and bobs even now, resting dormant in his open hand.

“When your Papá Benito died, he left this watch to his eldest son—Abuelito Osvaldo. And, when your abuelito died, he left it to _his_ eldest son… me.” He paused, eyeing them thoughtfully. “I suppose no one counted on twins,” he admitted with a snort. “That’s from your mother’s side of the family.”

“I guess it’ll belong to you,” Felipe noted, somewhat ruefully. “You’re ten minutes older, after all.” It was true; even though they were identical twins, one of them had to be older than the other. It was the only time in their history that they’d been separated, and they were too small to even remember it. Oscar won the watch by a technicality, and when Papá died it would be his responsibility to take care of it, until he had a son… or died, whichever came first.

Even if it was the way of the world, something about it seemed… off. It felt strange to think that he would have something of his own, something he didn’t _have_ to share with his twin. They’d shared nearly everything their entire lives—mostly by necessity, but sometimes by choice. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the thought that he could be greedy for once, and keep a watch that they both loved to himself just because he was a little older. It certainly wasn’t very fair. If Felipe had been older, and _he_ had been the one to get the watch… well….

“We can both have it,” he decided firmly. “We can take turns wearing it, right?” Felipe didn’t have to nod, or even say a word; Oscar could see the agreement shining in his smiling face.

“That sounds fair.” Papá grinned at them, a hint of some long-forgotten mischief in the wrinkles near his eyes. He went to put his hands on their heads, thinking better of it at the last second and clapping their shoulders instead. They both filled to bursting with pride, ecstatic at earning their father’s approval.

“How come it doesn’t run, though?” Felipe asked suddenly, tilting his head to look at the silent, stalwart face. The hands were stuck at ten-to-five, and had been for as long as either of them could remember. Even the second hand was immobile, when it should have been leaping with energy.

  
“I don’t know.” Papá paused, interrupted by another round of coughing; this time it seemed to tear at his lungs with a hoarse, crackling sound. They waited for him to be through, staring up with quiet concern. He was coughing more often lately, but the doctor had started talking about experimental medicines, surgery at some medical center in the north—things they both knew, without asking, that their parents couldn’t dream of affording.

“Papá?” He took in a deep breath, clearing the phlegm from his throat before continuing.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “It stopped running a long time ago. I can’t remember a time where it _did_ work,” he added, frowning. “Papá only used it for decoration. I believe it might have stopped when he was a little boy.”

“But it can’t be fixed, then?” Oscar asked.

“Perhaps, if we took it to a watchmaker. But those are expensive… and besides, even they might not be able to fix it. It’s a very old watch.” Papá’s bushy brows met over his nose, mustache bristling as he looked at the bright, empty face. “We keep it because it’s an heirloom, not because it’s a good clock,” he finally said, punctuating his words with a firm nod.

“But someday… maybe it could be both? Again?” Felipe prompted hopefully. “If we had the money, I mean.”

“I don’t see why not.” Papá shrugged as best he could without unseating them, his shoulders bobbing under the thickly padded coat. “But until then… well, I suppose it’s just never five o’ clock, is it?” He smiled again, and this time they laughed at the thought.

“What’s going on?” Mamá appeared at the threshold, a near-frenzied expression on her face that wasn’t helped by the frizz already starting to float free of her tight bun. “What are you laughing at? Eli, have you not started the truck!?” she fussed, hands on her hips, purse dangling from her wrist. “We’re already behind as it is, and I refuse to be late to this wedding!”

“ _S_ _í_ , Isa. We can leave right now.” Papá hardly argued with Mamá when she was in one of her moods, if they were about to leave for a public place, and _especially_ if they were going to see family. If he’d taught his sons anything, it was how to only pick the battles that could easily be won. What was the use of fighting a losing war?

Taking the watch, he slipped it into his coat before sweeping them off his lap and onto their feet. Stuffing the handkerchief into his breast pocket, he silently herded them out of the kitchen and into the foyer. Imelda was already waiting by the coat stand, her hair plaited with a purple ribbon and wrapped in a low style nearly identical to the one Mamá wore every day. She looked grownup with her short heels and stylish dress, teeth white against the dark stain of her favorite lip-gloss.

“¡ _V_ _á_ _monos, vámonos_! Do I have to carry you like sacks of groceries?!” Mamá urged, taking their shoulders and all but shoving them towards their sister. “We can’t be late!” she repeated again. “We just can’t be late!” Papá stepped around Imelda, taking his weather-beaten cowboy hat from the coat stand and shoving it down over his graying hair.

“We won’t be late,” he assured his wife as she snapped her fingers impatiently. “If we take the freeway we’ll be there in under half an hour and— _Diego_!” An old gray goat shoved its face into the door gap, yellow eyes rolling as its tongue stretched for the hanging vines on the windowsill planter. “I’m going to murder this goat,” he rumbled, voice deep with frustration.

“No, you’re not!” Imelda contradicted boldly, sounding very much like their mother. She sucked in a sharp breath, tottering on one leg as the blunt edge of her heel wedged between the animal’s eyes. It bleated stubbornly, pushing against her weight until part of its sinewy neck shoved the door open wider. “Diego, don’t _do_ that—” Imelda grunted, trying to force it back through the front with her foot.

“Move!” Mamá swung her purse with vindictive anger, the heavy bag clobbering the goat on its horns. Imelda shouted, her voice melding with the goat’s as it finally retreated back through the doorway and stood on the dirt path, the bell on its neck jangling as it shook off the blow.

“Mamá, you’ll hurt him!”

“I’ll do much worse, if he keeps escaping that pen!” she vowed, snarling as she stomped towards the ratty pickup waiting at the end of the path. Imelda scowled after her, grabbing Diego by the horns and checking him over for signs of damage. He tugged against her hold, bleating as his hooves kicked up dirt around them. “Imelda, you leave that goat alone and _get in the truck_!”

“ _Alright_!” Imelda let him go, nearly tumbling onto her rear as she and the goat shot in separate directions. Dusting her hands on her pantyhose-covered thighs, she shoved her toes firmly into her heels before sprinting down the path, dust rising in her wake.

“¡ _No corras_!”

“You said to hurry up!”

“Hurry up, but don’t run!”

Papá locked the door, twirling the keys on his finger with a sigh before shooing them ahead of him down the path. Imelda already had the back door open, waiting for them while she argued circles with Mamá; they’d probably fight all the way to the wedding if Papá didn’t put a stop to it. Oscar paid them no mind, ducking between them to hop into the back seat.

He crawled across the cracked leather, fitting himself as close into the corner as possible. The door’s interior panel was half scratchy carpet, half blazing-hot metal; choosing the lesser of two agonies, he condemned himself to a scratched up arm. Imelda crawled in behind him, her purse squashing him against the door as she made herself comfortable on the middle section. He’d have liked to sit by Felipe, but Imelda’s longer legs needed the extra space that only the center seat could provide. Felipe crawled in the other side, hissing as his hand accidentally brushed the shining metal.

With the door shut, they were squashed together in the backseat like sardines in a tin. The heat was automatically doubled, and it would only get worse; the _cacharro_ didn’t have air conditioning, and Mamá wouldn’t risk their hair being blown around by the wind. They shoved at each other’s elbows uselessly, trying and failing to carve out some kind of personal space for the duration of the drive.

Mamá tucked herself into the passenger seat, reaching automatically into her purse and pulling out the old fan she used during church services. Papá pulled himself slowly into the driver’s seat, the springs squeaking as he settled himself before slamming the door shut. His eyes glanced into the mirror, roaming over their crushed forms as if counting them, before the vehicle shuddered to life with a rusty growl.

“I don’t know why you’re so worried.” Imelda’s voice sounded as though it came through a tunnel, but maybe it was just because she was nibbling the cuticles on her thumb. “It’s just Primo Daniel; he’s not going to care that we’re late.”

“Oh, that’s not the problem!” Mamá snapped from the front, clutching her purse in her lap. “Daniel’s an odd case, _pobrecito_ —he wouldn’t mind, of course. But I don’t want to hear a word about it from your Tía Alejandra.”

“You could win in a fight with Tía Alejandra.”

“I know that, it’s just the matter of the talking. You’ll understand when you’re older, _mija_.” 

“I’m already sixteen. Anyway, you know she’ll be late to _my_ wedding, when I have one, so what’s the point?”

Imelda and Mamá continued in circles, this time debating how late was _too_ late to a wedding as the pickup trundled towards the freeway in sputters of smoke and grinding gears. The inside of the cab smelled like antifreeze, pressed powder, and the coconut hand lotion that Imelda always used. The mixture was odd, but the fragrance it created was a comforting scent: just one of the many variations that screamed _home_.

The heat of the cab, the gentle rocking of the truck as it turned onto the freeway and picked up speed, the white noise of his mother and sister’s conversation all made him sleepy. Mamá had woken them earlier than usual for showers, and the adrenaline of being caught earlier in the kitchen had him feeling drained.

He leaned his cheek against Imelda’s arm, barely noticing that she didn’t brush him off like she normally would, and resigned himself to the warmth of sleep. 

* * *

 

Oscar lifted his head, his eyes heavy and gritty with sleep. Sweat stuck the hair to his forehead, soaking his white tank and streaking his glasses. For a single heartbeat he was still a child, looking around with growing panic for his parents. A yawn broke through his thoughts, and when it settled his mind had slid from the realm of dreams back into the present. Kitchen table, lamps, watch. _Boy, is it hot in here._

The kitchen was ablaze, despite it being in the dead of night. The autumn night was peaceful, the remnants of a balmy afternoon still stirring in the air along with the chirrup of a lone cricket. He knew that if he opened the door, the cool air would feel good on his skin. But that involved getting out of the chair and walking to the mudroom; his legs felt like lead weights, his spine aching from being slumped over the table.

The air hummed with electricity—half the reason it was so hot in the room. They’d taken all the spare lamps in the house, waiting until Imelda was asleep to rig them together around the table. The result was supposed to be d-i-y laboratory lighting, but ended up being a fire hazard waiting to happen.

Extension cords filled the long strips of two surge protectors, their orange and black lengths strung over chairs and arcing through the air like the strings of machine shop Christmas lights. The two living room lamps stood sentinel on upturned chairs at each end of the kitchen table, stripped of their pale shades; their bulbs glowed white hot, filaments strumming. Their own portable work light had been removed from the shed and instead hung from the lampshade over the table, its metal grating blinding in the reflection of so many different light sources. Even Coco’s pink desk lamp had been carefully removed, its owner snoring softly beneath her many coverlets. Only Pepita was a witness to their thievery, her eyes two glowing marbles beneath the bed.

He was at the center of this makeshift sun, baking slowly in its heat. His throat was parched, tongue thick in his burning mouth. Felipe sat across from him, hunched over the table with his elbows steadying his arms. Sweat beaded at his temples, rolling down his nose; a steaming cup of coffee sat out of spilling range. His gut churned at the sight of the cup, rolling until he tasted it in the back of his throat. It wasn’t the good, clean, breakfast flavor of coffee, either; rather, it was the bitter, acrid tang of black swill on an empty stomach after being awake for days on end. 

“I didn’t want to fall asleep.” Felipe’s hands stopped in their tracks, holding a pair of tweezers steady. He glanced up, his eyes magnified by the homemade goggles they’d built themselves after getting frustrated at one too many tiny screws. They gave him the aura of a bug-eyed villain, some kind of spidery… _thing_ instead of his brother.

“’ _ta bien_ ,” he replied, letting his head fall to this side; his neck cracked with a pop. “Besides, you did most of the legwork. I can handle this.” Without another word he turned back to the tiny apparatus lying between his hands, his mustache barely moving as he became laser focused on his task.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Oscar reached for the cup, taking a long drink and fighting the wave of nausea that came with the first searing bite of pure coffee on his taste buds. Jaw clenched, he waited for the caffeine to start doing its magic as he looked around the table at their mess. His diagrams—sheets of printer paper covered in his handwriting and joined together with masking tape—were where he’d left them, mechanical pencil streaked in places by the force of his erasing. They couldn’t risk Imelda hearing the old printer and coming to see what they were doing up so late; they had to be _successful_ before showing her the fruits of their labors. 

Success, it seemed, came at the price of cramped hands and heavy eyestrain.

Felipe tilted the tweezers deftly in his hand, letting out a long breath as he slowly eased a gear into the perfectly gear-sized hole. It clicked beneath a lever, catching a tiny plate that spun once with the force of the gentle movement. _Tick._ He licked the sweat from his lip, chest expanding in a sigh of relief.

“That’s the last piece.” They both stared for a moment at the small gears and absurdly miniscule screws, all of which had seemed so much bigger in their memory. It truly was an intricate system: gold and silver gears, several spring-loaded levers, not to mention the flat plates trying to shield the more delicate machinery from the light of day. They’d both known, going into the project, that there was so much that could go wrong. There was no room for error, or roughness. One missing piece, one errant jab, one single ounce of misaimed pressure, and the antique would be ruined.

“Now, the moment of truth.” Felipe sniffed, wiping his nose on his shoulder before carefully pressing the golden backing over the parts. He pressed down until it gave way with a _snick_ , his palm imprinted with a negative of flowers and vines. “Are you ready?”

“I think so.” Oscar leaned over the table, his eyes tracing the familiar patterns of morning glories. A simple design, yet beautiful in its simplicity. The artisan had known that when he first designed the cover, so many years ago. Unornate, yes, but not unadorned. “Do you want me to wind it?”

Felipe handed the watch to him and he looked down at it, nestled safely in his palm. It used to be as big as his hand, and yet now he could hide it fully just by closing his fingers over the cover. It was so… infinitesimal in comparison to his memories; how could it have ever been this small? How could they have ever been _that_ small?  

“Ready?” he asked, and Felipe nodded.

“Ready, _hermano_.” His fingers brushed over the mainspring, fingernails plucking at the tiny mechanism before he could get a good hold. He wound it slowly, feeling the stem tighten beneath his fingers as he went along. It creaked, lessening and lessening until he was afraid to turn it even once more.

He took a deep breath, heart hammering against his ribcage with coffee and nerves. Felipe gulped, his brow creasing as he waited to see what would happen. Would all their research be worth it? Hours upon hours of videos on horology, scouring the depths of the internet for detailed diagrams, visiting forum after forum in search of answers…. Would the last three long, sleepless nights have been for nothing? There was only one way to find out.

He clicked the mainspring, setting it into place and waiting, breath held. Felipe went still across from him, hands flat on the table, fingers trembling. They both stared, unbreathing, unmoving, unblinking, only to flinch back when the second hand flicked. And flicked. And flicked again. One revolution, sixty tiny jumps as it passed the dark numbers in a race against itself. _Tick. Tick. Tick._ The minute hand clicked.

“It… works.” Felipe sounded as incredulous as he felt. They glanced at each other, then back at the watch. “It works?”

“I think—”

“Yes—”

“I think so!” Quickly, before any time was lost, he opened the face. The tip of his index finger was enough to slide the minute hand, the hour hand ticking merrily away until it read the same time as the digital clock on the stove. He closed the crystal back over the dial and they both sat in silent awe, watching the minutes tick by. Each revolution they prepared mentally for it to stop, only to smother their increasing delight when it didn’t.

Despite everything, there was a certain solemnity to the joy, a heavy knowledge that this wasn’t for their own gain. This was something that should have been set right long ago. They were sure that, had Abuelito had the money to fix it the day it stopped, they would have never known a silent watch. But it was only because _they_ could fix it, with very little expense, that it worked at all.

“It really works,” Felipe breathed again, his soft smile curling at the corners. “You’re a genius.”

“You’re a genius,” he objected, modesty coloring his denial. “You made it work; you always were better with your hands.”  

“Only on smaller things. Besides, you found the original design notes online. I didn’t have the patience to open every single PDF on that site.” His smile twitched. “You spent four hours doing it; I kept the time.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have been able to find that website if you hadn’t deciphered the weird serial number on the manufacturer’s stamp.”

“Which I didn’t even notice until _you_ pointed out the indentions in the engravings.” They stared at each other, neither willing to take credit for their success. It was a rare case when they _didn’t_ agree on something, and the novelty wasn’t lost on them even now. Usually Imelda—or their mother, if she was around—had to sort them out; otherwise, they could remain at a stalemate for months. At least _this_ was a worthy argument to have.

“I suppose it’s good that we aren’t innovators, at least in real life.” Oscar turned back to the watch, his thumb tracing the outer bezel around and around the dial. “We’d never agree on who came first on the patent.”

“Oscar comes first, of course.”

“Felipe is first alphabetically.”

“You’re older.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“No one says Felipe and Oscar,” Felipe pointed out, a slight edge to his voice. They were both tired, it was plain to see, and the argument wouldn’t be going anywhere. “It’s always Oscar and Felipe. It must sound better that way.”

“Does it sound better to you?”

“I don’t know!” Felipe shrugged, plucking at the thin straps of his tank. “It’s just Oscar and Felipe, always. No one has a _reason_ to talk about us on our own.”

“Even so.” They both fell silent, watching the second hand tick endlessly. It was almost as though, after such a long nap, it was revitalized and ready to run for another hundred years. _I want a nap, too_. The watch was keeping good time with the digital clock, which meant it really was nearly four am. Imelda would be waking them up in four short hours, and then there was Coco’s little dinner theatre thing later that evening….

“We need to go to bed,” Felipe echoed his thoughts hoarsely.

“We need to turn off all these lights.” They both glanced around, looking at all the work that would have to be done—what they had done for the past three nights. “Not it.”

“ _Oye_ , you _just_ woke up.”

“So?”

“So, you have more energy!”

“But—”

“ _Hey_!” Felipe nearly fell out of his chair, his elbow bumping one of the living room lamps. Oscar leapt to his feet, his head colliding with the hanging shop lamp; the metallic thud rang in his ears, scalp burning from the heat of the bulb as he clapped his hands to his head. The watch slipped out of his hand, his fingers fumbling to catch it before it hit the table. By some miracle he barely managed to grab it, letting out a choked sound of relief.

“¿ _Hermana_?” Felipe peered around his twin, blinking hopelessly against the bright lights around the table. Imelda swayed in the entryway, pajamas hanging loosely from her form and feet bare. She clung to the arch with one hand, her eyes narrowed in bleary annoyance. For a long moment she just _stared_ , glowering sleepily at the lamps, the extension cords, the surge protectors, and the fools in her kitchen in the middle of the night.  

Oscar waited for the hammer to fall… if indeed it would fall. Imelda was hard to read when she was sleepy; she could look angry and really be happy, or laugh when she really wanted to cry. Usually she just wanted peace and quiet, though. _We must have been louder than we thought._

“Hey,” she grumbled again, running a thumb beneath her eye and leaving behind a black streak of mascara. “Turn off those damn lights and go to bed.”

“But—” Oscar glanced at his brother. “Shouldn’t we clean up?”

 “ _B. E. D._ ” She pointed at the hallway, her temple resting against the wood above her hand. “ _Now_ , before I decide to kill you.” Felipe jumped to his feet, scurrying to yank the surge protectors from the walls. The room fell into darkness, nearly pitch black after their eyes had been used to the sun.

Imelda cursed, her hand smacking against photo frames as she shuffled back towards the bed. Oscar felt Felipe grab his wrist, counting paces between his body and the entryway. He counted too few, a muffled thump where he ran headfirst into the corner of the kitchen, and then he too began the long trek down the hall.

Oscar stood, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight from the curtained window, and nearly jumped from his skin when Pepita wound around his legs. The watch ticked in his hand, tiny quivers against his palm. The size might have been smaller than they’d remembered, but one thing hadn’t changed.

The weight of those gears felt exactly the same.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually part of the next chapter--the murder mystery dinner theater-- but it grew so big on its own that I decided to let it be its own installment. It's always a lot of fun to write Imelda's parents, so I can get carried away sometimes! Still, I wish I could say that I planned this to be it's own chapter, yada yada yada... I didn't, sorry.


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